


My Heart is Like a Haunted House

by dinnfameron



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Humor, David Rose Deserves Nice Things, Dramatic David Rose, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mystery, POV Patrick Brewer, also pumpkin spice as a love language, but like in a fun way, david's a ghost, hallmark movie vibes, that's right it's both, trolling as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinnfameron/pseuds/dinnfameron
Summary: “I told you, Patrick,” David says, rolling his eyes. He vanishes again, and Patrick is still blinking up confusedly when David appears at his side. “I’m a fucking ghost.”Later, when he’s reliving the moment that he met David Rose, Patrick won’t acknowledge to himself that he fainted. But that’s exactly what he does.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 95
Kudos: 119
Collections: Schitt's Creek Trick Or Treat





	1. He basically wanted to Single White Female me.

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCTrickOrTreat](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCTrickOrTreat) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Patrick Brewer has just started working for Ray Butani, who's recently dipped his toes in real estate. Ray has tasked Patrick with fixing up a house on the outskirts of town that may or may not be haunted. Patrick doesn't take him seriously at first, but before long he meets the ghost of David Rose, former owner of the town. From there, Patrick has to figure out how to deal with selling a haunted house _and_ the fact that he may or may not be falling in love with the ghost haunting the place. 
> 
> ++ Okay, so all you really need to know is David's a ghost, but it's not _that_ sad. I tried to angst it up but I'm honestly better at sarcasm and shenanigans. There is some talk of death/murder but it's all in fun. Also spoilers for Practical Magic and Ghostbusters if you haven't seen those? Also way too many erection jokes. Rating is mostly for language.

“Patrick!”

Patrick drops the bottle of pumpkin spice he’d been shaking into his black tea, cursing as the powder spills everywhere. Ray pokes his smiling face around the doorframe and glides into the kitchen, fingers steepled in front of his chest.

“There you are! Taking another break, I see.”

“Just getting some tea, Ray.” Patrick grabs a dishcloth from the drawer, wets it, and begins wiping up the spill. He wonders briefly if he’s supposed to throw some over his left shoulder to keep the evil spirits away. His grandmother had always done that with salt, but Patrick didn’t think the superstition applied to seasonal spice blends.

“It’s fine!” Ray says, his voice taking on the same cheerful intonation as always. “You can take as many breaks as you like! I’m not paying you by the hour.”

“You’re barely paying me at all,” Patrick mumbles under his breath. 

“What’s that?” Ray chirps.

“I said, ‘how can I help you, Ray?’”

“I’m so glad you asked. Ray’s Real Estate, Photography, Travel Planning, Closet Organization, and Dog Walking Service has recently acquired a new listing!”

“That’s great,” Patrick says sincerely, lifting his mug to his lips and taking a tentative sip. Spilled spice disaster aside, the flavor is perfect. He hums a little in appreciation.

“It is, isn’t it?” Ray agrees. “You know that sprawling estate on the edge of town? Morningwood Estate?”

“That… can’t be the name of it.”

“Oh yes, I’m fairly certain. You know the one, with the two Grecian statues out front?”

“The naked guys?” Patrick had passed the estate once, scouting out a potential hike on the far side of town. The statues on either side of the gate had been… noteworthy. “I thought that place was condemned.”

Ray chuckles. “Patrick, you’re just not accustomed to the culture here in Schitt’s Creek. Those statues aren’t naked. They’re tastefully nude. And I can assure you that Morningwood is a very valuable listing, for the right buyer.”

Try as he might, Patrick can’t imagine what type of person would want to be the proud owner of two naked Greek guys and a place named _Morningwood_ , but he nods along anyway. “Well, I’m happy to help with anything you need.”

Ray clasps his hands together, shaking them victoriously. “That’s great news! Because I’m practically booked solid with the pumpkin patch special I’m running for Photos by Ray right now, and I really need you to handle the listing.”

Wait. “Handle it?”

“Oh, yes, it’s nothing, really,” Ray insists, waving a hand. “You’ll just need to check out the property, you know, have it appraised, fix it up a little, see to any essential repairs that might keep it from selling, clean up the grounds, stage it for photos, organize an open house, list it across all of our various digital, print, and social media platforms, screen potential buyers, and handle the sale.”

By the time Ray pauses for breath, Patrick’s jaw is a vice. “Is that all?” he asks, his voice thin.

“I think so. Though, if I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“You know I’m not a real estate agent though, right?”

“Oh yes, of course,” Ray says jovially. “I’ll still be the listing agent, don’t worry.”

“So you would… get the commission, then?”

“We’ll split it! 80-20.”

“With the 80 going to…”

“Well, Patrick, I am the one who got the listing,” Ray chuckles again good-naturedly. 

“I see.”

“So you’ll do it?” Ray’s hopeful, beaming grin is tough to say no to, Patrick knows. It’s how he ended up renting the second bedroom in Ray’s house rather than finding his own place or booking a long-term motel stay like a grown up. A decision he regrets each and every day.

“Sure, Ray. I’ll handle the listing,” Patrick finds himself saying against his better judgement. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful news, Patrick! I so appreciate you taking care of my Morningwood for me, really.”

Patrick takes another sip from his mug to hide his expression. He _has to_ find a new job.

“I’ll put a packet together for you with all the property info,” Ray goes on. “And don’t worry, the rumors are almost certainly untrue!”

“What rumors?”

“Oh, that it’s haunted.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

Early the next morning, Patrick hangs a left at the naked – _tastefully nude_ – statues and gets his first real look at Morningwood Estate. 

It looks… well, spooky, would be the obvious term. What was once probably a beautiful and stately gothic revival mansion now looks weathered and gloomy, the façade nearly overtaken by heavy swaths of ivy. The front porch sags, its paint chipped and faded. Even the trees framing the home on either side seem threatening, their stark branches reaching out menacingly.

It makes for a picture better suited to Salem, Massachusetts or Stephen King’s version of Maine than Schitt’s Creek, Ontario, Patrick thinks as he pulls alongside a rusted red Ford already parked in the driveway. A petite woman with long dark hair leans against it, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t look happy.

The caretaker, Patrick assumes. Ray had informed him about the history of the property the day before, including its illustrious caretaker:

 _“Stevie’s Aunt Maureen was the owner of the estate, but she passed some time ago,”_ Ray had said _. “Stevie’s been the caretaker of the estate for many years. It’s my understanding there was some internal family drama over what to do with the property after Maureen’s death. The rumor is that Stevie tried to buy her cousins out on a payment plan, but they wouldn’t play ball. Now the family is selling, and Stevie is none too happy about it.”_

“Stevie Budd?” Patrick asks, stepping out of the car and extending a hand. He tries to keep his demeanor friendly even though, deep down, he’s wondering what the hell kind of caretaker lets a place fall into this level of disrepair.

“Patrick Brewer. Ray said you were coming.” Stevie’s voice is flat, but she shakes his hand warmly enough.

“Thanks for agreeing to show me around,” Patrick offers. “I just wanted to get an idea of what we’re dealing with, here.”

Stevie snorts, already turning toward the house. “Not sure we’ve got enough time to get into _that_ ,” she says over her shoulder.

Stevie’s skills as a tour guide leave something to be desired, as it turns out. She takes Patrick into the foyer, where they’re greeted by a huge, gaping hole in the floor at the base of the sweeping spiral staircase.

“What happened to the floor?” Patrick asks, making a note of it on his legal pad. Safe to say that’s one issue that might affect the likelihood of a sale. He’ll have to call in a contractor.

“It was… damaged,” Stevie offers.

“You don’t say.” Patrick can’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but Stevie only shrugs. They step carefully around the hole and pick their way up the stairs. There are a handful of bedrooms, one with an en suite, and an extra full bath. Other than a few small repairs, some cosmetic fixes, and a whole lot of staging, Patrick doesn’t see much to do on the second floor, so he follows Stevie back downstairs, where she unenthusiastically points out the formal dining room, sitting room, and den. A narrow hall under the stairs takes them to the laundry room and a cramped powder room.

The grand tour ends in the kitchen. Patrick can make out clear signs of water damage under the sink, but it seems minimal from what he can see.

“The sink leaks,” Stevie informs him.

“And you didn’t feel like that was something you should address?” Patrick tries to keep his voice even, but come on. It’s pretty clear that Stevie is only a caretaker in the loosest sense of the term.

Stevie shrugs again. Apparently it’s her go to move.

“I don’t really take care of that kind of stuff,” she tells him.

“Aren’t you the _care taker_?”

“More of a glorified babysitter,” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest again.

“I’m sorry?” 

“Nothing,” she says.

“Why is the water even on? And the power? All these appliances are running,” Patrick says, casting a look around. “Ray said this place has been empty for years. Aren’t you wasting a lot of money?”

“They’re not on all the time,” Stevie rushes to explain. Patrick doesn’t get why she chooses now to start sounding defensive; he’s basically insulted her caretaking abilities at every turn up to now. “I just turn stuff on… periodically… to check.”

Patrick hums noncommittally. It makes sense, he supposes, to make sure things are still in working order from time to time. But the way Stevie says it gives him the sense that’s not the real reason she does it.

Stevie, seeming to sense his doubt, suddenly springs into action with the most animation Patrick’s seen from her yet, pressing something into his palm. “Look, I gotta go. Here are the keys. Don’t fall through the floor; um, Ray has my number if he – if you run into any trouble. And, uh, good luck.”

“Oh, okay, so that’s– yep,” Patrick says, watching Stevie disappear out the door. “I guess we’re done, then.”

He can hear Stevie peel out on the gravel drive and half hopes she takes out one of those Grecian atrocities on her way out. Patrick looks around incredulously. This place is going to be impossible to sell to anyone even half sane. He’s going to have to put in a ton of work just to get it ready to list, let alone actually sell. What has he gotten himself into? 

One thing he knows for sure: Ray is _definitely_ not paying him enough for this.

A little while later, Patrick is poking around under the sink, trying to spot the leak. He thinks he could probably forego a plumber and just fix it himself if he watched a few YouTube tutorials, but he wants to try to identify where it’s coming from first. And find a shut off valve.

“Um, hi.”

Patrick yelps and jerks at the voice. In his rush to sit up, he cracks his head against the underside of the cabinet and yelps again.

“Ow, dammit,” he says, grabbing his forehead and carefully unfolding himself from under the sink.

Standing above him is a dark haired man in a black sweater. He’s grimacing in sympathy at Patrick’s injury, but even the twist of his expression can’t mar how handsome he is. It takes Patrick a second to recover, and it’s definitely not just the throbbing pain above his eye.

“Hi,” Patrick says. “Can I – can I help you?”

“Hm. Doubtful,” the guy says. “I could help you though? Ice?”

“Um, okay.”

The stranger busies himself around the kitchen while Patrick gingerly hoists himself to his feet. He doesn’t feel dizzy, but he definitely knocked his head pretty good. Embarrassing. He takes a seat at the kitchen island and lets the stranger press a dishtowel full of ice to his head.

“Thanks,” Patrick says. He places his hand over the ice pack and the stranger lets his hand fall, takes a step away. “Uh, who are you? Ray didn’t say anyone else was coming by today.”

“Ray, of course. Stevie didn’t tell me who was selling the place,” the stranger says in place of answering Patrick’s question. “That’s kind of a relief, I guess. He isn’t exactly known for moving properties quickly. How long did it take him to sell that abandoned train?”

“It’s still for sale,” Patrick tells him. “Though he’s confident he’ll move it soon. Well, not literally, since it can’t be moved or torn down because it’s a histo–”

“Historic landmark, I know,” the stranger says, rolling his eyes. “He showed it to me once, when I was looking for a place.”

Patrick quirks a smile at him. “You know, I’m not sure this place will go any faster. They say it’s haunted, and now that I’ve seen it, I have to say there’s a good chance they’re right.”

“Mm, you have no idea.” The stranger gives him a significant look.

“So, who are you?” Patrick asks again. “Are you a relative of Stevie’s, or…?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m David,” the stranger – David – extends his hand. “I’m the ghost.” 

“Hi, David, I’m– wait,” Patrick pulls the ice pack away. “What?”

“Yeah, I’m the ghost,” David says, his voice tipping up at the end like he’s asking a question. “I’m the ghost who lives here. Well, not _lives._ I’m not _alive._ You know what I mean.”

“Oh, you’re a ghost,” Patrick says, like it should’ve been obvious. At David’s emphatic nod, he goes on. “Right. And I’m the wolfman.”

David deflates.

“Okay,” he says defensively. “I am though.”

“Very funny, David. No, seriously, did Stevie put you up to this? Because I know she’s unhappy about selling, but I really don’t have the –“

“Okay, new guy?” David waves a hand at him. “You’re very adorable, and I get that you probably haven’t met many ghosts, but please get there faster because I’m telling you the truth.”

Patrick sobers at David’s sincere expression. Oh. _Oh, no_. This poor, handsome guy was delusional. Patrick’s heart twinges with sympathy. He should call someone. Should he call an ambulance? Did you call ambulances for people who thought they were ghosts, was that right?

“Okay, David,” Patrick says, keeping his voice agreeable. “You’re a ghost. I believe you.” David eyes him warily. “Is there maybe, um, someone I could call for you, though? To come pick you up to take you, uh, back to the cemetery?”

“The cemetery!” David shrieks. “Why the fuck would I want to go to a cemetery?”

“Okay, I don’t know,” Patrick waves the ice pack helplessly. “Or, like, like… I’m sorry, I don’t know where ghosts hang out.”

“Haunted houses,” David says haughtily.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t hang out here, David. I have to get this place ready to sell. Look, why don’t you let me call your family to come get you, and they can get you the help you need, alright?”

“Son of a– okay, um…?” David extends a hand toward Patrick, raises his eyebrows in a question.

“Patrick,” Patrick supplies, unsure why he just gave his real name to someone who _believes he’s a ghost_.

“Patrick,” David says. “Patrick, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I don’t have a lot of time, and I just…I’m a ghost, okay, a spirit. I don’t know how else to say it, and I just need you to accept it so that we can” –he makes a sweeping motion with his hands– “move on.”

“David,” Patrick says, as gently as he can manage. “I don’t want to have to call the authorities, here, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you leave.”

“Ughhhh,” David groans at the ceiling. “Just once, I’d like to skip the whole _proving I’m a ghost_ moment. Okay, fine. Want me to go?” he says, addressing Patrick now. “I’ll go.”

And he’s gone. Not like ‘slipped out the back door without saying goodbye’ gone. Gone like here one second, not here the next. Like someone flipped a switch and the David hologram turned off. Like Frodo putting on the One Ring. Gone.

Patrick looks around the kitchen, fully aware of what an idiot he must look like. It’s not like David’s going to pop out of the silverware drawer and yell “gotcha!” 

“What the hell?” Patrick murmurs to the empty room. He lays his ice pack on the table and moves back into the foyer. Did he hit his head that hard? Did he just hallucinate an extremely attractive and nice-smelling man with an oddly specific delusion?

“Neat trick, huh?” a voice calls from overhead. Patrick cranes his neck and spots David on the second floor landing, arms crossed on the railing and peering down at him.

“How did you get up there so fast?” Patrick says, picking his way over the massive hole in the floor.

“I told you, Patrick,” David says, rolling his eyes. He vanishes again, and Patrick is still blinking up confusedly when David appears at his side. “I’m a fucking ghost.”

Later, when he’s reliving the moment that he met David Rose, Patrick won’t acknowledge to himself that he fainted. But that’s exactly what he does. 

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

Patrick wakes up an unknown amount of time later on a surprisingly comfy if ramshackle sofa in the den, a threadbare blanket draped over his legs. He sits up with a groan, his head still throbbing. He’s probably going to need to get that looked at.

It takes him a moment to place where he is. Even longer to retrace the morning’s events that led to his current situation.

“David?” he calls tentatively. No answer.

Patrick pulls out his phone and punches Ray’s contact.

“Good morning, Patrick! How are you doing with my Morningwood?”

“Ray, you need to stop saying– it’s fine. Uh, except. Did you or Stevie send someone else out here? A guy named David?”

“David? No, I haven’t sent anyone. In fact, the only David I know is David R–” Ray gasps dramatically on his end of the call, then lowers his voice. “Patrick. Are you saying you’ve seen David Rose on the property?”

“Well, I didn’t get a last name, but he said his name was David,” Patrick shrugs, instantly regretting it as a fresh wave of pain radiates from his head. “Uh, kinda tall, dark hair, expressive face?”

“Dressed impeccably,” Ray goes on. “A bit snippy?”

“That’s him.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Ray say woefully, “perhaps I’ve put too much on you. You’re obviously cracking under the stress if you’re suffering hallucinations.”

“What are you talking about?”

“David Rose was the man who died there,” Ray informs him. “He’s the ghost who’s rumored to haunt the property.”

“Ray, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” and Patrick wishes this was the craziest statement he’s ever had to make since going to work for Ray, but it doesn’t even crack the top ten.

“Of course not,” Ray agrees. “But, you did say you saw him. So perhaps I should just take over the listing myself. Maybe I could train you to take the pumpkin patch photos. Or there are a few dog walking clients you could take over for me…”

“No!” Patrick practically shouts. He has a freaking MBA, for crying out loud. He did not sign on to take pictures of toddlers dressed like gourds and walk Mrs. Sanderson’s asthmatic chihuahua. “No, Ray, it’s fine. Obviously, I was mistaken. The guy I saw must have been, like, a delivery person who got turned around.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Ray sounds doubtful.

“I’m sure. I’m fine. It’s all good.”

“Alright, Patrick,” and Ray is back to his jolly self. “Let me know if you need anything else with the listing. Of course, I’m headed out to Old Man Hockley’s pumpkin patch, so I’ll be out of range for quite some time. Maybe Stevie can assist you if you have questions about the property?”

“Sure, great.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“So, I take it you’ve seen him.”

“Hello, Stevie,” Patrick says, unable to keep the bite from his tone. He’s pacing the den, phone pressed tight to his ear. “Why yes, if you mean David Rose, or, more specifically, the ghost of David Rose? I have seen him.”

Stevie snorts.

“You could have warned me,” Patrick accuses.

“What should I have said? ‘Hey, by the way, you’ll probably run into the ghost who haunts the place.’ I have enough bullshit to deal with without adding an involuntary psych hold to the menu.”

“Okay, but…” Patrick pauses, flustered. He sighs. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have believed you. I’m not even sure _I_ believe me, and I was there when I met him.”

Stevie hums her understanding. “Yeah, it’s fucked, I’ll grant you that. But it’s David, so, pretty par for the course. Are you with him now?”

“No, I actually haven’t seen him since–” Patrick trips over his words, embarrassed. “Uh, I blacked out.”

“You ‘blacked out?’ What happened?”

“He, uh, disappeared? And reappeared? A couple times. And I just, uh, blacked out.”

“You _fainted?”_ Stevie laughs harder than is probably necessary. “That’s cute. I didn’t faint when I saw him for the first time. Twyla didn’t even faint.”

“Who’s Twyla?” Patrick hopes his subject change is subtle.

“The woman who runs the café? She also does some light seanceing on the side. We had her over a couple times to try to cleanse David’s spirit, or whatever. Send him into the light. Didn’t take.”

“Listen, Stevie, I can’t–” Patrick casts a glance around, like David’s going to reappear any second. Which, Patrick supposes, he could. “He can’t be here. I’m supposed to be listing this place to sell.”

“Well, I’m sure he’d be happy to go haunt the Hyatt Inn and Suites over in Elm Lake instead, Patrick, especially since they got that new waffle maker for their continental breakfast, but he can’t exactly leave.”

“Why not?”

“He’s _a ghost._ There’s like, rules and shit he has to follow. And numero uno is he can’t leave the grounds of the estate.”

“Well, I need him gone!”

Patrick’s quickly losing patience. This place was going to be a lot of work for only twenty percent of the commission, and that was before the damn ghost, and his head _really_ hurt.

“Yeah, can’t help you with that.” Stevie’s tone gives Patrick the sense that she gives exactly zero fucks about his problems. “Maybe call Twyla? Have her try again. If it’ll make you feel better.”

Patrick sighs, rubbing a hand over the goose egg above his eye.

“Fine. I’ll call Twyla. Thanks for all your help,” he finishes sarcastically.

“Anytime.”

Patrick disconnects the call more violently than is strictly necessary, sighing in frustration.

“What is _that?_ ”

Patrick nearly jumps out of his skin for the third time that day. He turns to find David standing in the doorway, eyeing Patrick’s phone inquisitively. Still handsome, Patrick thinks. Shame about the ghost thing.

“Hey. Um, this?” Patrick holds up his phone. “It’s, ah, a phone. A telephone?”

David crosses his arms. “Don’t mess with me. Where’s the cord?”

“Oh, um, they don’t have cords anymore. It’s all mobile. They’re, like, really small now, and it’s also a computer and a camera – “

David’s lips are quirking a path up the side of his face.

“…and you’re messing with me, aren’t you?” Patrick asks.

“Oh, very much so. I died four years ago.”

“Okay, well, thanks for that.”

“You were talking to Stevie, right? She tell you I can’t leave this place?” David gestures helplessly. “I literally have no means of entertainment available to me other than messing with whatever poor soul happens to cross my path.”

“Oh, and here I thought I was special.”

“Nope. So what did Stevie say?”

“Um, she– I–” Patrick doesn’t know how to start.

“Did she tell you to call Twyla? To, um, help me move on?”

“Yeah. Is that…?”

“Yep, you should.”

Twyla, it turns out, is the bubbly, ponytailed woman Patrick has seen at the café a few times. She’s wearing department store jeans and a floral blouse, and she bounces into the house as soon as Patrick steps back from the doorway.

“Hi, David! How are you?” she says sincerely, crossing the foyer and gripping David’s forearm with her slight hand.

“Hey, Twy,” David says. “You know, still dead.”

Twyla nods. “Well, let’s see if your spirit is ready to move on this time.”

After a lot of candle burning, chanting, and crystal waving, Twyla determines that David’s spirit is not ready to move on this time. David thanks her for trying anyway. 

Patrick rubs the back of his neck as he walks her out to her car.

“So, any other ideas?” he asks her. “For, uh, how to get rid of him?”

Twyla peers back at the house, a sad smile on her face. “David’s spirit is so strong, but he always had trouble adjusting to change, even when he was alive,” she says. “My guess is there’s still some unfinished business holding him back.” She looks meaningfully at Patrick. “If you can help him figure out what it is and find a sense of closure, I bet he’ll move on all on his own.” 

Patrick finds himself nodding. “Thanks, Twyla.”

“Call me anytime, Patrick. I’m always happy to help.”

Patrick makes his way back into the house and finds David leaning against the curved staircase in the foyer, arms crossed. He eyes Patrick with uncertainty.

“So what now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Patrick confesses. “This is all a little tough to wrap my head around, to tell you the truth.”

“How do you think I feel? I’m the one stuck in this house.” David casts a disgusted glance at their surroundings. “Looks like the setting from an episode of Scooby Doo,” he mumbles.

“So you _want_ to move on, then?”

“Yes, I want to move on. Whatever that means, it can’t be worse than this.”

“Twyla said you have unfinished business.”

“Of course I have unfinished business. I have a fuckton of unfinished business.” David gestures again dramatically. “I never got to stay at that ice hotel in Kühtai. I never got to meet the Obamas. I only saw Mariah in concert _once._ I was supposed to _do_ more. I was supposed to have more time. Instead I’m… here. Stuck in a Shirley Jackson novel.” His hands drop to his sides, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“How did you die?” Patrick asks. Maybe if he could get the facts, find out what happened, then he could help David move on. For the listing. Not because seeing David upset makes the muscles in his shoulders tense. 

“I don’t know,” David says softly.

“You don’t know?”

“I mean, I don’t remember. I remember coming here, kind of? I remember being here, in this house. And being upset. And then… I don’t remember anything after that.”

“But you died here?”

“That’s what Stevie tells me,” David sighs. He trudges into the den and Patrick follows. David flops gracelessly onto the sofa and Patrick leans against the far wall, rests an elbow against the mantel over the fireplace.

“She’s the one who found me, you know?” David says. “Stevie. She said it was bad.”

“But she doesn’t know what happened either?”

David shrugs, and it reminds Patrick of Stevie. “I died. That’s all she needed to know.”

“Well, what were you doing here in the first place?”

“I just said I don’t know!” David huffs. “It’s a fucking mystery to me. Like why would I come to this hideous place of my own volition? It’s so far beyond incorrect I wouldn’t even know where to start…”

“Oh, so you didn’t like to creep around crumbling estates and scare people when you were alive?” Patrick jokes, trying to get the pinched look off David’s face. “That’s a recent development?”

“I told you, I have to get my entertainment where I can.” Patrick thinks he can almost make out the barest hint of a smile dawning on David’s features. “And I do not creep.”

“Okay, so you don’t remember why you came here, and you don’t remember how you died...” Patrick works through it in his head. “Is it possible you were meeting someone? Like, someone asked you to come?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” David says doubtfully. “Depends on who I was meeting.”

“So it would’ve had to be a friend, then. Or someone you had some kind of relationship with?”

David snorts. “I didn’t have a lot of friends. Or… people I had relationships with. Whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand. “It would’ve had to be more like someone I owed a favor to. A big favor, to get me to come to this dump.”

“Can you think of anyone like that?”

“What, like you’re thinking someone lured me here and…” David’s eyebrows shoot up. “And killed me?!”

“Oh, I don’t–”

“You think someone _murdered me_ , Patrick? Why would you think that? Do you think I’m someone that someone would _want_ to murder?!”

“You are a bit exasperating, but murder seems like a stretch,” Patrick says flatly.

“Okay.”

“But I could see where someone might–”

“Okay,” David makes a shushing gesture with one hand. “I think we’ve heard enough from you.”

Patrick chuckles, peeling himself from the wall and joining David on the sofa.

“Look, I’m not saying you were murdered. It just – there has to be a reason you’re sticking around, right?”

After a moment, David nods.

“So maybe there was someone else here with you. And maybe they know why you’re not moving on.”

David screws his eyes shut and throws his head back, and, God, Patrick really can’t deal with how over the top all his expressions are.

“Okay, okay, yes,” David says finally. “So… working from the theory that I was murdered–”

“–I didn’t say you were–”

“Working from that theory,” the volume of David’s voice ticks up as he plows over Patrick, “I should try to think of some people who would, um, want me dead.”

“Or just people you were in conflict with,” Patrick reasons. “Maybe it was an accident.”

“Mm. Well, the problem with that,” David grimaces, “is that might be a pretty long list.”

“How long?”

“Like. Half the town?”

“David. Why would half the town want you dead?”

“Look, it’s not that I’m a rude person,” David rushes to explain, hands flying every which way. “I just have a lot of correct opinions, and I’m happy to share those in order to help people make better choices.”

“Uh-huh. So, you’re like universally hated, then.”

“That’s not… not universally.” David rolls his eyes again. “There’s Stevie. And Ronnie seems to really like me for some reason.”

“No surprise there.” Patrick’s met Ronnie. “She seems to also have a lot of correct opinions.” 

“Ugh, we’re never going to solve my murder,” David whines, defeated. “And I’m going to be stuck in this – this hellhole forever. Even after Ray sells it, and they turn it into a Christmas World, oh _god_.”

He buries his face in his hands.

“David.” Patrick lays a hand on his shoulder, trying not to be distracted by how warm and solid David feels under his palm. “We’ll figure it out, alright? You, just, take some time to think about anyone who might’ve had a real reason to hold a grudge against you. It’ll probably be weeks before this place is ready to be listed. We have plenty of time.”

David bites his lip, looking like he wants to say more. Patrick rubs his thumb back and forth where it’s still resting on David’s shoulder. His sweater is very soft.

“Hey, I’ve got a question,” Patrick says.

“Yes?”

“Why are you, like… hard?”

David’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement, his lips tucking fully between his teeth to stifle a smile.

“Nope, not what I meant.” Patrick blushes. “That is– um, real. You know. If you’re a ghost, then why can I…?” Patrick shifts his hand from David’s shoulder to poke at his forearm.

“Corporeal, is the word you’re looking for,” David informs him, still fighting to hide his amusement.

“That’s the one.”

David shrugs. “No idea. It’s like this every year.”

“Every year?”

“Yes, I’m only here for, um, a week? The week leading up to Halloween. Or the week that I died, however you want to look at it. And during that time I’m, ostensibly, alive. I mean, I’m not. I’m very much dead, obviously. But I am, as you so eloquently pointed out, in a physical body. And I do things that living people do like eat and sleep and get cold or hot.”

“So, the rest of the time you’re a regular ghost though?”

“I don’t know.” David spreads his hands. “There is no ‘rest of the time.’ There’s just this, just this week.”

“So you’ve only been here for…” Patrick tries to do some quick calculations, counting back from Halloween.

“Today is my third day,” David says, nodding.

“But then where are you the rest of the–”

“I don’t know, Patrick, alright?!” David’s voice sounds strained. He flails in frustration, sighing before starting again. “Look, I wish that I could remember, that any of this made sense, but it doesn’t. So. If you’re really set on helping me cross over, or whatever, I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you.” 

“Okay, David,” Patrick says gently. “That’s okay. I’m sorry I pushed. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Okay,” David sighs again, his body sinking into the sofa as the tension leaves him. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Look, I, uh,” Patrick clears his throat. “There’s a lot that I need to get started on for the listing. I’ll try to stay out of your hair as much as I can. And if you do think of anything, you can just, let me know. Okay? No pressure.”

He gives David a small, sincere smile, which seems to work, because David returns it.

“Okay.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

Patrick bounds up the steps to Morningwood bright and early the next day. He’d stopped at the café on his way and splurged on a pumpkin chai latte for himself and, before he could overthink it, one for David as well. David said he ate food; apparently Stevie brought him a delivery of groceries at the start of his week every year. Patrick didn’t know if David would like the drink choice, but maybe he’d at least appreciate the gesture.

“Oh my god, Patrick, finally.” David greets him at the door, hands waving expansively. “I think I thought of a suspect in my– what are you wearing?”

Patrick looks down at himself. Planning for the kind of work he’d be doing cleaning up the estate, he’d foregone his usual dress shirt in favor of a worn Blue Jays tee layered under his favorite red flannel. He wore his regular jeans, and on his feet were his beat up work boots. He didn’t see anything wrong with what he had on. It was certainly functional, and even seasonally appropriate, he thought.

“What?” he asks David.

“You look…” One of David’s eyebrows quirks up, whether in amusement, disgust, or something else, Patrick isn’t sure. “Like the paper towel guy.”

“Who… the Brawny guy?”

“Yes. You look like a lumberjack.” David fiddles with the cuff of Patrick’s flannel. He doesn’t seem to hate it.

“I’ve had it forever,” Patrick shrugs. “It was my dad’s.”

David’s face twists in horror. “Oh my god, Patrick, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sure your dad was a great guy.”

Patrick tilts his head, then feels his eyes go wide as he catches David’s meaning.

“Oh, no, David, that’s not – he’s not dead. It just, it used to be his. He gave it to me.” Patrick shrugs again.

“Oh, thank god. Okay,” David sighs in relief. “Well, it is certainly… a choice. You look very cozy.”

“I am. Very cozy.”

“And this is very soft,” David adds, rubbing the hem of Patrick’s tee between his thumb and forefinger.

“It is,” Patrick affirms, swallowing thickly.

“And I can’t help but notice that you are carrying two cups from the café,” David says.

“That’s right.”

“Would one of those cups be for me, by any chance?”

“Well, I was going to give you one,” Patrick smirks, his breathing evening out as David steps out of his space. “But I don’t know. Us lumberjacks get very thirsty.” He heads into the kitchen, David following behind him. “I’ll probably need both of these.”

“But you know that I can’t go to the café and get my own though,” David whines.

“You don’t even know what it is,” Patrick points out.

“What is it?”

“Pumpkin chai latte?”

David groans long and loud. Patrick tries not to blush.

“Okay, but that sounds amazing. And I haven’t had a pumpkin chai in literal years. Like, for my entire afterlife.”

“Stevie never brought you one?”

“Stevie believes that pumpkin flavored things in fall are for basic bitches.”

“So you’re saying I’m a basic bitch?”

“Yes, as am I. Now please let me have one.”

“Okay, David,” Patrick laughs, handing one over. And David must really be a ghost, because the moan that escapes his lips when he takes his first sip from the cup will haunt Patrick for a long time.

“So,” Patrick starts once they’ve both had a chance to savor their teas a little. “You seemed very excited about something when I first walked in.”

“Oh, yes!” David’s eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up with barely contained enthusiasm. “I thought of someone who would definitely have wanted me dead.”

“Oh, wow, okay. It’s weird how excited you are about that, but please continue.”

“His name is Antonio. He worked for my former boss, and I’m the one who told her he was scamming her. It was not pretty. I found out later he stalked me for a while? He, like, dressed like me and tried to style his hair like me.”

David runs a protective hand over his hair, and Patrick can’t imagine anyone making their hair look as good as David’s. It’s perfect, not a hair out of place. Patrick wonders if it’s some kind of ghost magic.

“Okay, so it sounds like he definitely had reason to hold a grudge,” Patrick says.

“He basically wanted to Single White Female me.”

“But would you have agreed to meet him here though?”

David looks doubtful. “Well, maybe he tricked me. Maybe he, like, cloned Wendy’s phone and sent me a message posing as her and said that she was here and she was in trouble.”

“Been watching a lot of Criminal Minds?”

“…That’s not the point. The point,” David puts a finger in the air, “is that I would’ve come for Wendy, probably.”

“And who is Wendy?”

“My former boss,” David says in a try-to-catch-up tone. “We were… friendly. I don’t know. Not close, but. She believed in me. Gave me a chance when I really needed one.” David gives Patrick a sheepish grin, like he’s almost embarrassed by his own sentimentality. “She– I owed her.”

“I see.”

David takes another sip from his latte, and Patrick takes the natural lull in the conversation to ask a question that’s been prickling at the back of his mind.

“What about your family?”

“I mean, maybe we didn’t always get along, but I hardly think they would _kill me_ , Patrick,” David scoffs.

“That’s not what I meant.” Patrick shakes his head. “I just, um, I looked into you, a little, last night.”

“That sounds vaguely dirty,” David says, shimmying his shoulders.

Patrick feels his cheeks warm but goes on. “I know you came here with your family a few years before you…died. So, where are they now? Shouldn’t they be taking care of you?”

David swallows and looks away. When he speaks, his voice is soft.

“They don’t… um, they moved away. Last year? They used to, um, to come. Visit me. But I don’t think they’ll be coming this year.”

“I’m sorry, David.”

“It’s okay,” David says, and Patrick is suddenly tense with how very not okay it is. How could David’s family just abandon him like that?

“Look, um, I think the Antonio thing is worth pursuing,” David says, bringing his cup to his lips for another long sip while he stares at the floor in front of Patrick’s feet.

“Okay, David,” Patrick finds himself saying. “I’ll check it out. What’s Wendy’s number?” 

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“Hi, Patrick. How’s your Morningwood?”

“Jesus, Stevie, have you been talking to Ray?”

“I have. To be fair, though, I probably would’ve gotten around to an erection joke on my own eventually.”

“I don’t know what makes you think you can joke about it. Your family are the ones who named the property.”

“I know.” Stevie sounds fond. “Aunt Maureen had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old.”

“Apparently it’s genetic.”

Patrick is sitting in his car, the driver’s seat pushed all the way back, a plain legal pad on his lap and a pen poised and ready in his hand. He’d told David he needed to call some contractors and wanted to do it where he wouldn’t be a bother, which was technically true. But he also wants the privacy to track down a few leads about David without him overhearing.

His first call is to Stevie because David didn’t have a phone, which meant he didn’t know anyone’s number. And Patrick has a few other questions for her, anyway.

“Look, David and I need your help with something. We’re trying to get in touch with his old boss, Wendy? Do you have any contact info for her?” Patrick asks.

“I could probably get it. Why do you wanna talk to Wendy?”

“We’re trying to answer some questions around, uh, what happened.”

“What happened…?”

“How David died.”

“Oh,” Stevie says. “Why do you think Wendy would know something about that?”

“Uh, well, this is going to sound crazy, but–”

Patrick lays it all out for Stevie. What Twyla had said about unfinished business, and how that had led David to admit that he didn’t remember anything about how he died, and how _that_ had led to their current theory that someone else was with David when it happened. He finishes up with David’s suspicion that this Antonio guy may somehow be involved.

“For the record, I don’t think he was murdered,” Patrick feels the need to say.

“Oh no, he probably was.”

Patrick isn’t sure he heard correctly.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Stevie says. “David being murdered is an incredibly likely scenario.”

“That’s– I thought he was your best friend?”

“Oh, he is. Which means I know exactly how annoying he can be.”

Patrick is silent for a moment. What kind of twisted friendship did these two have? 

“You know, David told me you found him,” Patrick says, voice even.

“I did.”

“So… you were here that night.”

“Patrick, are you asking if I had something to do with David’s death?” There’s something very eerie in Stevie’s tone. A chill runs down Patrick’s spine. He thought that only happened in books.

“You just told me how ‘incredibly likely’ it is that someone murdered him. You were here the night he died. I’m just putting two and two together,” he says. “I’m very good at math.”

“Well, check your work, because I didn’t kill David,” Stevie says.

“That’s exactly what a murderer would say, though.”

“Patrick, look. Investigate me all you want. David is– was– _is_ my best friend, and finding him like that was the worst night of my life.” Stevie’s voice cracks, just a little, and Patrick immediately regrets accusing her.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he says. “That must’ve been really tough.”

“Yeah.” She blows out a long breath. “He was so… I’ve never seen him so – so _still_ like that.”

Patrick wants to ask her for details. Where did she find him? What state was he in? What else did she see? But he can’t bring himself to do it. Partly because she doesn’t sound like she can go through all of that right now, and partly because Patrick isn’t sure he wants to know. Trying to picture the funny, expressive, vibrant man he’s met as a dead body is creating some major cognitive dissonance in Patrick’s brain.

“You never talked about this with David?” he asks instead.

“No,” Stevie says, defensive. “At first, I couldn’t even believe he was back. And I didn’t want to talk about it, that first year. And then after that, he stopped asking.” Patrick can hear the relief in her tone, and he thinks he understands. David stopped asking because he knew Stevie didn’t want to talk about it, and Stevie never said anything because she was relieved to have her best friend again, even if it was only for a week each year. It was like they were both afraid that acknowledging it would make it go away.

“Do you have any contact info for David’s family?” Patrick asks, happy to give Stevie a chance to talk about something else.

“Sure. Why?”

“I just… have a few questions for them.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“Johnny Rose.”

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Hi, Mr. Rose. My name is Patrick Brewer and, uh, I know your son…”

And, okay. Patrick hadn’t actually meant to suggest when he called that they were responsible for David’s death. But he had to check, didn’t he? It was a little suspicious, them just up and leaving town like that. Maybe they knew more than they were letting on.

“– _kill_ David, what?!” Mr. Rose exclaims.

“Of course not. How _dare_ you impute that we were in any way contributory to David’s shuffling off of the mortal coil,” Mrs. Rose trills. “We would never harm David. We love him! If we were to ever let harm befall one of our own progeny, accidentally or otherwise, surely it would have been Alexis–”

“Oh my god, mom! And also, ew, like, no, we did not kill David.”

“Okay, but you just left him here, though,” Patrick accuses. “He’s your family, and you just left him alone.”

Silence.

“It’s just… it’s too difficult,” Mr. Rose says finally, defeated.

“Yes, one week with one’s offspring per annum is hardly sufficient, and it makes moving on nigh impossible.” Mrs. Rose sounds drained.

“We’re not saying it was right, leaving,” Mr. Rose explains. “But we felt we had to, to protect the family.”

And that makes no sense to Patrick. Protect the family? Wasn’t David also part of the family? He supposes he can’t really judge the Roses for their choice. He has no idea what it’s like to lose someone you love that much. Someone who’s such a big part of your life. Your own child; your own brother. But still, to not even come visit David? 

“How is he?” Alexis asks, her voice small.

“He’s… he’d probably be better if he heard from you,” Patrick tells her honestly.

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

David is parked at the kitchen island when Patrick returns to the house. He’s flipping through an ancient copy of something called Major Lady Magazine and crunching loudly, an absurdly large bowl of cocoa puffs in front of him.

“Hi,” he greets Patrick around a mouthful, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “How did your phone calls go?”

“Fine. I, uh, I did a little digging while I was out there, too. About you.”

David’s eyebrows pitch up in surprise. He swallows.

“Oh, okay. Find anything interesting?”

Patrick decides not to share with David that he accused his best friend and entire family of more or less murder. He’ll tell him later. Probably.

“Well, I spoke to Wendy. Antonio is officially cleared.”

“Okay, just because Wendy says he’s innocent, that means nothing. She has literally the worst judgment about people.”

“Antonio’s been in prison for four years, David.” Patrick tells him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Apparently he was arrested on a couple of pretty serious fraud charges. Not for what he tried to do to Wendy, for something else. He was convicted around the same time you died, but he was in jail all through the trial. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Huh.” David’s brow furrows as he processes the news. He gives Patrick a sheepish smile. 

“Wendy had a lot of really nice things to say about you, though,” Patrick tells him. “Though now that you’ve told me about her poor judgment, I’m not sure it carries the same weight.”

“Oh,” David doesn’t take Patrick’s bait, looking anxious. “Um, what did she say?”

“She said you were the best employee she ever had,” Patrick tells him sincerely.

“I ran her business into the ground,” David counters, waving both hands to emphasize his words.

“She may have also mentioned that, yeah. But she seemed okay with it? She said you were smart and had great taste. She also said that you were the most interesting person she ever met, and, uh,” Patrick stumbles, wonders if he should mention this last part, “she said it was a tragedy that you were robbed of ever getting to realize your full potential.”

“Oh,” David says again.

“Is that– that’s nice, right?” Patrick asks. Maybe he shouldn’t have told David what Wendy said, but he figured David deserved to hear nice things about himself. Even if they were bittersweet.

“It is,” David clears his throat, smoothes his hands down his thighs. “It’s really nice.” 

“I, uh, I managed to request a copy of your death certificate, too,” Patrick says after a long moment. “So we’ll know more when we receive that.”

“And when do we think that will be?”

“In a few days.”

“Okay. Thanks, Patrick,” David says softly. He flashes Patrick a small smile, a dimple popping out on his cheek, and Patrick has to bite his own lip to keep from smiling too broadly in return.

“You’re welcome, David.”

After spending the better part of the morning investigating a murder that may or may not have happened, Patrick figures he’d better get to work on the actual reason he’s been sent to Morningwood in the first place. He messes around outside for an hour or so, checking gutters and downspouts, picking up a few fallen branches, and making notes on his phone to send to the landscaping crew Ray usually uses.

When he can no longer ignore the chilly rain that’s started to fall, he heads inside to start on a few basic repairs. He’s up on a stepladder in the back hallway, screwing a fresh bulb into the wall sconce and humming softly to himself.

“Hi, Patrick.”

Patrick definitely does not scream when David suddenly appears near his elbow, but he maybe takes an involuntary step backward. For a split second he thinks he’s going to fall, but then David is holding him up with strong hands until he finds his footing.

“David, what the hell.”

“Sorry.” David does have the decency to at least look a little guilty. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I feel like you did, though.”

“That is…not inaccurate,” David allows. He flails his hands. “Look, the whole popping in and out of the physical plane is one of the only enjoyable things about my current situation. You can’t blame me for using it to amuse myself on occasion.”

“I see,” Patrick says. “But you’re failing to take into account that if I fall off this ladder and die because you scared me? There’ll be no one here for you to torture.”

“That’s not true. Stevie would be here,” David says matter-of-factly. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. “Besides, maybe if you died here, you’d turn into a ghost too. Then I could torture you forever.”

Even though Patrick knows it’s a joke, something in David’s voice suggests he’s not entirely opposed to the idea of having a ghost friend for all eternity. It must get lonely, Patrick thinks, being stuck in one place all the time, unable to leave or even reach out to someone when you wanted to talk.

“We can only dream, David,” Patrick says wistfully, keeping the joke going. He finishes screwing in the bulb and moves down the ladder. David puts out a hand to spot him, not touching, just hovering behind his back. Patrick finds the gesture oddly endearing.

“That’s the wrong bulb for this space,” David says.

“What?”

David tilts his head toward the wall sconce. “That bulb is way too bright for such a small space. This is an interior hallway. You don’t need a spotlight, you just need to be able to see where you’re going.”

“Is this one of those correct opinions of yours?” Patrick teases.

“In point of fact, it is.” David gives him a crooked smile. He rolls his shoulder casually. “Look, you can take my advice or not. I mean, I’m the one who lives here. I mean, not _lives_ , but– anyway, my point is I should know the amount of light that is appropriate–”

“Fine, David,” Patrick holds up a mollifying hand. “I’ll add some lower watt bulbs to my shopping list.”

“An Edison bulb would be best,” David says, considering. “With like a teardrop tip? And amber-tinted glass.”

Patrick chuckles. “Let me write this down.” He makes his way toward the kitchen where he left his legal pad, David on his heels. “Did you have any other thoughts about all the wrong choices I’m making?”

“Oh, thank God, I thought you’d never ask.”

David spends the rest of the day helping Patrick fix up the place. Not only does he inform Patrick of all the correct aesthetic choices he should be making, he even rolls up his sleeves (figuratively speaking) and does some actual work once or twice.

He helps Patrick take down the old curtains in the front rooms and tighten the hardware in the kitchen and unstick the deadbolt at the back door, and Patrick even lets David call to schedule the cleaning service to come out, David delighting in the chance to talk to someone who doesn’t know he’s dead.

Together, they find the shut-off valve below the sink and figure out how to fix the leak. (Okay, it’s mostly Patrick fixing the leak while David provides color commentary on the YouTube tutorials Patrick’s using to DIY the repairs. But he does hand Patrick tools whenever he asks for them, once Patrick has sufficiently described what the tool looks like.)

The two of them are on the porch when the sun finally dips behind the tree line, posted up in a pair of weather-beaten but sturdy Adirondack chairs. David has produced a bottle of cheap red wine and a couple of mugs from the kitchen.

“Well, that was a fun day,” he tells Patrick as he pours.

“You have an interesting definition of fun,” Patrick teases. He’s surprised to realize how much he agrees with David, though. He can’t remember the last time he enjoyed himself so much, and he’s not sure if that’s a huge insult to the quality of his usual social calendar or a huge compliment to the quality of the man he’s just spent the day with.

David smiles a bitten-down smile at him, the dimple he keeps hidden in his cheek making a brief appearance. He takes a generous sip from his mug before throwing his unoccupied hand in the air.

“I’m just going to say it: we’re no closer on Operation Solve My Murder.”

Patrick levels a look at him. “David–”

“No, I know. I’m still workshopping the name.” 

“That’s not– yeah, it could use some work. But, David, listen, it’s fine. We still have plenty of time to figure out what happened to you.”

“Three days.” David takes another sip of his wine. “Give or take a few hours.”

“See? A lifetime.”

“Okay, if that’s a dig at my current predicament, I won’t hear it, and I won’t respond to it.”

David’s partially turned away from Patrick, surveying the derelict fountain on the front lawn, but his half-hidden smile gives him away. After a moment, Patrick can hear him release a soft sigh.

“I just wish I could remember,” he says.

“You will,” Patrick says. He has no idea where the confidence in his voice is coming from. The truth is, he has no idea if David will ever remember what happened to him. What he does know, somehow deep in his bones, is that he, Patrick, needs to assure David however he can. Maybe it’s just sympathy for David’s miserable situation, but Patrick needs him to believe that everything will be okay. “And if you don’t,” he goes on, “we’ll figure it out, one way or the other. I can do a little more research when I get home tonight,” he offers. “See what else I can find about your death, or whatever.”

The smile David gives him then is almost small enough to be missed, tucked into the corner of his mouth as it is. Patrick doesn’t miss it.

“You don’t have to do that,” David says.

“I want to.” And Patrick’s grateful he can blame the warmth in his cheeks on the wine.

They sit in the quiet for a moment, watching the evening give way to night, the only sounds the creak of the Adirondacks and the occasional sip from a mug.

“You’re like my own little Jonathan Groff,” David says after a while.

“Who?”

“You know, like in Mindhunter?”

“Oh, the guys who started the, um, the serial killer unit at the FBI?”

“He plays the main guy.”

“How do you even know about that show? Weren’t you already dead when–”

“Sometimes Stevie brings over her tablet and we watch Netflix,” David explains. “Like death would keep me from enjoying a JGroff vehicle.”

“As if.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, well…” Patrick stands, and David does the same beside him. “I should probably get home. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready for tomorrow, and apparently I have an entire serial killer investigation unit to put together, so.”

David hums, reaches out to take Patrick’s mug.

“Thanks for all your help today, David. Really, I– I had fun.”

“You’re welcome.”

Patrick is halfway to his car when David calls after him, “Goodnight, Patrick.”

“Goodnight, David.”


	2. She's mine. You can't take her.

“Um, what are those?” David’s voice behind him is suspicious. Patrick turns to face him, giving him an innocent blink.

“Oh, those? Those are pumpkin spice donuts.”

David sweeps into the kitchen and leans over the bakery box Patrick has placed on the counter. He makes a show of closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of the donuts.

“You brought me pumpkin spice donuts?”

The awe filling David’s voice makes every bit of doubt and second guessing Patrick warred with on his way over from the café completely worth it.

“Ideally they would be for both of us,” Patrick says. “But, yes. You mentioned that Stevie doesn’t ever bring you pumpkin flavored stuff, and I just figured… I mean, it’s three days ‘til Halloween, David. It’s peak pumpkin spice season.”

“Oh, no, I absolutely agree. It’s just– you didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t.” Patrick can feel himself grinning stupidly at David but is unable to control it. “I brought some Cadbury Screme Eggs, too. I wasn’t sure if you liked chocolate, but they’re one of my favorites, so.” He coughs and reaches into his bag. “I, uh, I also got you this.”

Patrick slides the box across the counter and leaves David to explore it on his own. He makes his way into the den and gets busy screwing in the brackets for the new curtain rods he’d picked up in Elmsboro the night before. David had been adamant that showing the house with no window treatments would be incorrect, and even though it went against the advice he’d found on the internet about home staging, Patrick is confident that David knows what he’s talking about.

Patrick is just beginning to feel nervous about the fact that David still hasn’t left the kitchen when David finally rounds the corner from the foyer, his gift in his hand. He holds it up and gives it a little shake in Patrick’s direction.

“Um, what is this?”

“That? That is a cellular telephone, David. They don’t have cords anymore; they’re all mobile, and it also has a camera, and–”

“Hilarious,” David quips. “Um, but what I meant was, why?”

“Why?”

David rolls his eyes in an odd sort of helpless way, apparently at a loss. “Why did you give me this?”

“You don’t have one,” Patrick tells him simply. 

“No, I know– I know that I don’t have one. But, um…” David drags out the ‘m’ sound, eyes darting back and forth between Patrick and the phone in his hand like it’s all some sort of trick.

“Look, I just thought you might like to have something to do, when I’m not here to _amuse_ you,” Patrick teases. “You can stream something, or play games, or read the internet. And you could message Stevie or whoever when you’re” – _lonely_ , he almost says– “when you’re bored. I already put her number in there. And a few others.” 

David is looking at him with a strange gleam in his eye, biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s too much, so Patrick says, “Look, it’s not a big deal, David, it’s just a phone. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” David insists, his voice soft.

If there had been any doubt about whether David really appreciated his gift on Patrick’s end, it would have been demolished by how quickly David vanished into it. Not literally vanished, Patrick should probably specify. David was still there, lounging on the sofa in the den or drifting into the kitchen for his third donut. But his chin was planted firmly against his chest as he peered at his phone, thumbs flying frantically to shoot off a text to Stevie, forefinger flicking at a breakneck pace as he sped to catch up with four years of internet gossip.

When he’s finished installing the window treatments, Patrick settles in at the kitchen island with his laptop and hits Ray’s contact again.

“Patrick! How are you handling my–” 

“Everything is fine here, Ray,” Patrick cuts him off. “Just wanted to get a status update on those repairs I emailed you about.”

“Ah, yes. Ronnie’s here now. Ronnie!” Patrick can hear muffled voices through the phone. He can just make out Ray’s jovial lilt and Ronnie’s dry, flat monotone.

“Ronnie says she’ll be by to repair the flooring first thing tomorrow. She and I are headed to the orchard now for our annual Ray + Ronnie’s Apple Picking Extravaganza!”

“You’re– you and Ronnie are going apple picking? Like, for fun?” Patrick grips the phone. Hadn’t Ray told him he was too busy with work? Wasn’t that the whole reason he’d put Patrick in charge of the listing in the first place?

Ray, of course, completely misses the bite in his tone.

“Of _course_ it’s fun, Patrick!” he chuckles. “There will also be apple cider, and apple fritters, and ooh! Apple dumplings. We go every year.”

Patrick lets his head fall on top of his arm where it’s resting on the counter. “That’s, wow, that sounds like fun, Ray.”

“Yes, thank you, Patrick. I’ll be sure to bring you back a fritter. Or perhaps you’d prefer some apple bread? Or apple butter? Or all three!”

“Patrick!” David gasps loudly from the other room. “Did you know Mariah Carey just released a memoir?” He’s suddenly in the doorway to the kitchen and paying no attention to Patrick’s frantic miming at him to shut up as he reads from his phone. “It’s called _The Meaning of Mariah Carey_ , and _Time_ called it ‘wholly entertaining.’”

“Who is that, Patrick?” Ray is asking over the phone. “Do you have a friend there?”

Patrick snaps his fingers at David, finally getting him to look away from his phone. David’s smile is full and unabashed for a moment before he tamps it down between his teeth. Patrick is briefly blindsided by the force of it.

“Uh, yeah, Ray, that’s, just, my– my cousin? My cousin is here. He’s visiting.”

“That’s wonderful, Patrick! You didn’t mention you had family coming to visit from out of town. Will he be staying with us tonight? I’ll need to go to the store if so. I have nothing to make a suitable breakfast tomorrow. How does your cousin feel about Belgian waffles?”

“He’s not staying with us, Ray. He– he has a room at the motel.”

“Oh, too bad. Well, more waffles for you and I, I suppose. Which cousin is it?”

Patrick forgot that every day with Ray is a nonstop barrage of personal questions. Of course he’s told him all about his cousins.

“Which cousin? It’s D- D.J. His name is D.J.”

“It is absolutely _not_ D.J.,” David says under his breath, sounding disgusted. 

“You don’t know him,” Patrick supplies.

“Well, I hope you and D.J. have a wonderful visit, Patrick! Although I hope his presence doesn’t distract you from your duties seeing to my Morningwood?”

Patrick can just make out Ronnie’s absolute guffaw in the background.

“I’ll see that it doesn’t, Ray, thanks.”

“Of course. Oh, and Patrick, Roland will be stopping by soon to drop off the materials for the flooring repair. Apparently he knows a guy who was able to arrange a sizeable discount for us. I do hope that you and D.J. will be there to receive the delivery?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, thankful that Ray can’t see him. Of course. Roland always “knows a guy.” Patrick’s uncle, the contractor, would’ve said the materials had “fallen off the back of a truck,” but he strongly suspects it’s more or less the same thing. 

Patrick turns to find David reaching for his fourth donut.

“Well, I can’t speak for D.J., Ray, but I will be here.” He hangs up the phone and shoots David a look.

“Your cousin?” David says around a mouthful of donut.

“Seemed plausible,” Patrick shrugs. “It’s not like I have a lot of friends here yet. And Ray knows everyone I know.”

“Mmm,” David swallows. “And speaking of which. You live with Ray?”

“What?”

“It’s just, you said ‘he won’t be staying with us.’ To Ray.”

“Oh, well,” Patrick sighs, defeated. “Yes. I live with Ray. We’re roommates.”

“Hmmm,” David says, his voice high with amusement.

“People have roommates, David. It’s completely normal.”

“Oh, I know it is. I shared a _motel_ room with my _sister_ for _multiple_ years. We slept in twin beds.” David pauses, considering. “Do you and Ray share a–”

“We have separate rooms, David.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I have a queen-sized bed.”

“I didn’t say that you didn’t!”

“That I sleep in by myself.”

“Okay! That’s– that’s fine.”

Patrick sighs again. He doesn’t know why it’s so important to him that David’s clear on his sleeping arrangements. (He might have some idea why.) It isn’t like David could ever see where he lived, or come over for a movie night, or–

Patrick checks his swing on that line of thinking.

“Roland is coming by to drop off the materials for the floors,” he says. “Does he know that you..?”

“No,” David shudders. “The fact that I am captive in this house for a week every year, unable to leave if someone decided to stop by for a chat? Is not information that Roland Schitt should ever be privileged to know.”

“Got it. You should probably make yourself scarce then when he gets here.”

“Oh, I’ve already purchased the Mariah Carey audiobook. She reads it herself. I’ll be occupied for the next several hours,” David says, brushing sugar and pumpkin spice from his sweater.

“And I guess you just… put that on my account, then.”

David gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “You gave me the phone.”

“That I did, David.” Patrick turns back to his laptop, determined to get some work done while David’s occupied with Mariah. “That I did.”

Roland and Jocelyn show up an hour or so later, and Patrick helps Roland maneuver the flooring materials inside.

“It’s looking halfway decent around here, Pat,” Roland tells him, making a show of looking around the foyer and peeking into the den. David, thankfully, is nowhere. “When Ronnie said you were helping Ray with the listing, I was like, whaaa? _That_ guy? But you seem like you almost know what you’re doing.” Roland sucks his teeth.

“High praise, Roland.”

“It looks really nice, Patrick,” Jocelyn tells him, beaming. “I always thought it was so sad, this big house sitting empty. And then with what happened…” She grimaces without losing the grin from her face. It’s an unsettling look on her pretty features, but she quickly brightens again. “Well, it’ll be something special to see this place all fixed up again. Maybe a nice family will move in.”

Patrick feels his stomach drop. He doesn’t mention that that’s exactly what he’s worried about. That a nice family, or even a not-so-nice family, might decide they want the estate for themselves. It _would_ make a beautiful home, if someone would take the time to restore it to its original glory. But then where would that leave David?

“Thanks, Jocelyn,” he manages. He ushers the two of them toward the door before they can get any bright ideas about staying to “help” with anything. He’s no more than closed it behind them when David is at his side, leaning in to speak lowly in his ear.

“I remembered something,” he says, and Patrick jumps. David grips his arm, steadying him. “Sorry,” he adds.

“That’s okay. I just had a minor heart attack, it’s fine.” Patrick places a hand on his chest and takes a steadying breath that’s only a little bit for show. “What did you remember?”

“Roland. Hearing his voice again triggered something, the night I… I think it was the night I died. We had an argument.”

“You fought with Roland?”

“Yeah, I don’t remember everything, but he was like, up in my face, and he was saying, ‘She’s mine, you can’t take her.’”

“Who was he talking about? Jocelyn?” Patrick’s hand is already on the doorknob.

“I don’t know. I mean, why in god’s name would I want to take Jocelyn from him?” David waves his hands, palms up to punctuate his question. “But he was definitely mad.”

“Okay, wait here.” Patrick’s out the door and down the front steps before he’s even begun to think of what he might say. “Roland, wait.”

Roland kills the engine and rolls his window down. “What’s up, Pat?”

“Uh, look this is going to sound weird,” Patrick starts, but Roland’s and Jocelyn’s faces remain blankly unbothered, and he figures, why not? “It’s just… David Rose. You didn’t happen to see him the night that he, uh, died. Did you?”

“Oh, wow.” Roland whistles. “Did I see Dave?” He looks over at Jocelyn. “Honey, did we see Dave that night?”

“Rollie–” Jocelyn starts.

“Well, yeah,” Roland huffs a laugh. “I’d say we saw him, Pat. He tried to steal my truck.”

“I’m– I’m sorry?”

“So’m I, but it’s the truth. Ol’ Dave was out in the front yard tryna take her. I happened to hear him out there, and I went out to talk to him. He was – _hoo-boy_ – he was lit up, wasn’t he, honey?”

“David was upset,” Jocelyn explains, that same smile-grimace on her face from before as she squints over at Patrick.

“I’d say he was,” Roland says, sounding fondly amused. He levels Patrick with a conspiratorial glance. “Pat, he cussed a blue streak at me like I haven’t heard since Sam Loomis got blind drunk on sparkling white Russians at RAMC ’97!”

“And what did you do?” Patrick asks.

“Well, I wouldn’t let him have the truck,” Roland tells him. “Offered to call Johnny to come get him, but he took off in the other direction, muttering about how he couldn’t count on anyone but himself.” Roland shakes his head, reaches across the bench seat to curl his hand around Jocelyn’s. “You know, funny thing is, I would’ve let him take her if he’d just asked me first.”

“Oh,” Patrick says.

“Yeah. Ol’ Dave,” Roland says again. He stares out the windshield for a long moment, then gives himself a little shake. “Why d’ya ask anyway, Pat?”

“Oh, just curious. Stevie mentioned him and I… just wondered what happened.”

“He was a sweet boy,” Jocelyn tells him. “You would’ve liked him, Patrick.”

And Patrick doesn’t know whether ‘sweet’ is the first adjective he’d reach for to describe David Rose, but he’s certain the second part of her statement is true, if he could’ve known David back then.

He waves Roland and Jocelyn off and heads back inside.

“I think we can cross the Schitts off our suspect list,” he tells David, who’s pacing in the foyer, twisting the rings on his right hand.

“How can you be sure? What about the fight?”

“Apparently you tried to steal Roland’s truck. That’s what the ‘you can’t have her’ was about.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I guess he tried to call your dad, but you took off.”

“Okay, no, yes. I’m remembering some more of this now.”

“And are you remembering trying to commit grand theft auto?”

“I… am, yes. I did. I did that,” David huffs an embarrassed laugh. “Although, would we call it grand theft auto? When that truck is clearly worth, like, two hundred, max.”

“David–”

David sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It just– it would’ve been helpful if I could have remembered, like, the whole thing. Before you confronted Roland.”

“I would agree with that statement,” Patrick says. 

“Was he mad?”

“He was… Roland. And, for what it’s worth?” Patrick lays what he hopes is a comforting hand on David’s arm. “I don’t think you are as universally hated in this town as you think.”

“Mmkay, well we’ve already established that it’s not a universal hatred.”

“The Schitts liked you, I think. They miss you.”

David huffs, his eyes darting everywhere that isn’t Patrick’s face.

“Jocelyn called you a ‘sweet boy,’” Patrick tells him.

“Okay, well that’s not an accurate assessment.”

“Oh, no, for sure, but still. And Twyla? She cares about you. And you already know how much Stevie lo–”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you there. Because Stevie and I have very intentionally never DTR’d. So we will not be using the ‘L’ word with regards to Stevie at this time.”

Patrick lets the corners of his mouth quirk down to keep his charmed smile from overtaking his face.

“Okay, David. I’m just saying, you have friends here.”

“Had.”

“Have.”

“Well, that’s a very lovely thing to say, but I’m not sure that it gets us anywhere closer to figuring out who killed me or getting me out of this… situation.”

Patrick feels bad. He’d gotten so swept up in learning more about David that he’d nearly forgotten that David will be gone in less than three days, and that when he comes back it’ll most likely be to a home that’s been sold to a stranger.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick hears himself say. “We’ll figure it out.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“Hey, Patrick. How’s your erection?”

Patrick doesn’t know what it says about him that he’s already adjusted to Stevie’s grade seven attempt at humor after knowing her for such a short time, but he doesn’t think it’s a good thing. Maybe it says more about Stevie’s predictability, he reasons.

“It’s good, nice of you to ask. Hey, what are you doing today?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not I actually want to do whatever it is you’re about to ask me to do.”

Patrick sighs. He could do the witty banter thing with her, sure, but he thinks it might be best to go straight for earnestly sincere in this case.

“David’s having a hard time,” he says. “I want to do something to cheer him up, and I need your help.”

“I mean, I can think of at least ten things you could do that would cheer him up that would definitely not require my help,” Stevie says, and Patrick can imagine the suggestive waggle of her eyebrows that goes along with it. He shakes his head fondly. See? Predictable.

“Come on, Stevie. I know you’re the one who brings him food and clothes every year. You hang out with him and watch crime shows with him and get him drunk so he can forget about everything, just for a little while. You don’t want him to be miserable any more than I do.”

There’s silence on the line, and then Patrick hears Stevie scoff, her voice thick when she speaks. “Yeah. I do everything for that big dumb idiot.”

“I know,” Patrick says softly. “Which is why you have to help me, Stevie. You know him better than anyone. You know what he likes.”

There’s another long pause during which Patrick thinks she might actually say no.

“Well, first of all, David doesn’t like anything. So that’s lesson number one.”

“Uh, I think you’re confusing David with yourself.”

“Fair.” Stevie pauses again. Then, “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know, I just– I want him to enjoy what’s left of this week. I thought maybe we could get a bunch of Halloween decorations and put ‘em up around the house. Just go big, y’know? And we could watch whatever scary movies he’s into…maybe do a bonfire? And I know you’re not a fan of pumpkin, but David loves it, so I thought whatever, like, seasonal treats we could find? Definitely some of those Reese’s cup pumpkins. I know they’re not pumpkin- _flavored_ , but I bet he likes those–” 

“Not that you’ve thought about any of this at all,” Stevie deadpans, stopping Patrick in his tracks.

Is it weird, he wonders, that he’s thought about this? That he’s _thinking_ about it, about ways to make David happy? Or at least make his next few days suck less? It’s probably weird. Whatever. Patrick’s categorically not going to think about how weird it is.

“Well, what do you think?” he asks instead of thinking about it.

“Oh, he’s going to hate almost all of that,” Stevie says flatly. “Except for the food.”

“Oh.” Try as he might, Patrick can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Yeah, you’re right. It was a stupid idea.”

“Oh no, it’s a great idea,” she says. “We’re absolutely doing it. I’m just saying, he’s going to hate it. He’s going to spend the entire time complaining about how wrong everything is.”

“And that’s…good?”

“Yep,” Stevie’s voice is almost gleeful. “It’ll be fucking awesome.”

Which is how Patrick finds himself spending the better part of a crisp, fall afternoon driving around the greater Elms area in Stevie’s run-down wagon looking for the most garish Halloween decorations–

_“I think we should spring for the life-size horse skeleton. We could wait ‘til he falls asleep, then put it in his room!”_

_“I don’t know, Stevie. I mean, how would we even transport it?”_

–and scouting every bakery, sweets shop, coffeehouse, and mid-level regional grocery chain for the best seasonal treats they can find.

_“Look at this, Stevie. They have a chocolate ganache pumpkin tart with a **gingersnap** crust. I feel like that’s the winner, right?”_

_“It’s scary how well you get him after two days.”_

By the time they pull up to the estate, Stevie’s car is packed to the gills with festive goodies. Patrick holds the bakery box with the pumpkin tart on his lap. David steps out onto the front porch before Stevie has even thrown it into park, his arms crossed tight over his chest and a skeptical eyebrow arched in their direction.

“What is this?” It’s phrased like a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.

“This?” Patrick calls back. “This is called a Ford Focus, David.”

David curls a lip at him, apparently not appreciating the joke. He gestures again to Stevie’s car, where the backseat is piled high with holiday detritus.

“What, have you two just been off… gallivanting around, buying every hideous piece of Halloween trash you could find?” he asks.

Stevie turns to Patrick.

“Did he just say ‘gallivanting’?” she asks.

“I think he did.”

“Okay, no. This?” David waves a hand between the two of them, “Is not happening. I did not approve this.”

Patrick exchanges another conspiratorial glance with Stevie.

“What’s wrong, David?” he asks. “You don’t want to help me and Stevie decorate for Halloween?”

“I’m not kidding when I say I would rather shower with a bear than help you and Stevie _decorate_ for _Halloween_.”

“That’s… an intriguing mental picture,” Patrick replies, smirking. “So, you’re saying we should just take all this stuff back?” He gestures toward the car with an elbow; his hands are still full with the bakery box.

“I mean, do whatever you like, but I will not be participating in this I’m sure well-intentioned, but likely poorly-executed, display.”

“Oh,” Patrick says amiably. He moves up the front steps, coming to a stop in front of David. He holds up the bakery box between them. “So I guess you won’t be participating in this either, then.”

David glances at the box, looking intrigued. “What– what is that?”

“Probably just another poorly-executed display.”

David presses his lips to the side, looking torn. Patrick gives him a slow blink, his expression as neutral as he can make it.

“Okay,” David says on an exhale. “I could possibly be persuaded to help. In exchange for baked goods.”

“Very generous of you,” Stevie taunts from where she’s loading up with bags from the back of the car. 

“Mmhmm,” David says. “I could carry that box inside for you,” he offers Patrick.

“Oh, I think I’ll be holding on to this box for now.”

“I have plenty of things for you to carry, David,” Stevie calls. Her face is a perfect display of amusement while she teases her best friend, and Patrick winks at her as he shoulders the door open to go inside.

Patrick puts Stevie to work wrapping lights and fake cobwebs around the porch railing while he and David do the same on the interior stairs. Stevie unearths a Bluetooth speaker from the pit that is her car and queues up a Halloween mix she finds on Spotify. She and Patrick belt every song they know: the Ghostbusters theme, “Thriller,” “Monster Mash,” dancing goofily while David grimaces at them and begs them to stop. Patrick tells himself that he’ll stop as soon as David stops smiling when he thinks no one is looking, but he never stops smiling, so Patrick keeps singing. 

“Don’t worry, David. Your secret’s safe with me,” Patrick tells him during a break in the music. Stevie is setting up the outdoor lights, and it’s just him and David inside, trying (so far unsuccessfully) to hang a bat- and crow-themed mobile from the chandelier.

“And what secret would that be?”

“You like all of this,” Patrick casts his hand around the room, careful to keep his balance on the ladder. “The cheesy decorations? The horrible music? You’re having fun.”

David bites his lip, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Ugh,” he says. “It’s not– okay, this is maybe slightly more fun than I’m accustomed to having lately. Not that that’s saying much.”

Patrick nods, smiling up at the chandelier.

“But I don’t like the decorations. They’re gaudy as hell. There’s a correct way to decorate for this time of year, and this?” David holds up a wad of the fake cobweb stuff Patrick and Stevie had bought in bulk. “This is not that.”

“What’s the correct way to decorate for this time of year?”

“You know, a tasteful wreath on the door. Some scented candles. A nice floral arrangement. Perhaps – _perhaps_ – a gourd or two, though you have to be careful about that. A poorly placed gourd can tip the scale into kitsch like _that_ ,” David snaps his fingers.

“Well, I’ll know for next year,” Patrick says, grinning, then he freezes.

Would he see David next year? Would David still be here? Would he even want to see Patrick, after Patrick sold the estate out from under him? What about the new owners, would they be cool with Patrick stopping by to visit the ghost who lived in their house?

He chances a look down at David, who seems to be struggling with some of the same questions, his brow furrowed and his mouth a white line. He nods tightly, looking steadfastly at Patrick’s boots.

“Yeah,” he says.

Stevie chooses that moment to stomp into the room, dropping inelegantly onto the sofa and kicking her Converse-clad feet up on the cushion. 

“I’m done,” she declares. “I refuse to hang one more freaking ghost or zombie or werewolf until I’m sufficiently compensated with cheap booze for my efforts.”

“I think booze is a great idea,” Patrick says.

The three of them head into the kitchen and Patrick busies himself warming up the apple cider he’d picked up on the stove. Stevie swears it’s great mixed with the cheap apple pie wine she’d made him buy several bottles of, but he has his doubts.

Behind him, David pulls the pumpkin tart from the fridge and plates three slices, while Stevie unpacks the last of the grocery totes.

“That’s a lot of candy,” David observes, noticing Stevie pulling out bag after bag of “fun-size” candy bars.

“Yeah, well, I figured I should splurge on extra,” Patrick says, desperate to break the sudden tension that’s settled between David and himself. “Considering how the chocolate I brought you this morning disappeared in what? An hour? Hour and a half?”

“Okay, I had two Cadbury Eggs,” David tells Stevie.

 _“Boxes,_ David. You had two boxes. They come four to a box.” Patrick shoots Stevie an exasperated look. “He also had a half-dozen donuts,” he tells her.

Stevie, for her part, is glancing back and forth between the two of them, an odd smile on her face.

“We should probably eat real food, at some point,” Patrick suggests. “Man cannot live on sugar alone.”

“Speak for yourself,” David tells him, taking a bite of his tart and moaning obscenely around his fork. Patrick should be used to it by now. David does this every time Patrick brings him a new treat. And every time, Patrick is decidedly not used to it. He suddenly feels the need to be doing something. He clears his throat.

“Why don’t I order a pizza?” he offers. “And I can get the bonfire ready out back while we wait.”

Stevie nods and David hums approvingly, still entranced by his tart. Patrick takes that as all the encouragement he needs. He calls in the pizza order and heads outside to get the fire pit ready. By the time it’s all set up, it’s time for him to head in to town and grab the food.

When he gets back, David and Stevie are piled on the sofa in the den, a bottle of apple pie wine between them. Stevie’s hands are on David’s knees and he’s carefully applying black polish to her fingernails. Patrick notices that David’s nails have already been painted the same color.

“That looks like a spill waiting to happen,” Patrick says, unsure why he’s suddenly channeling his mother. Something about these two makes him feel the need to look after them.

“Please,” David says, not glancing up. “I’ve literally painted Alexis’ nails on Josh Hutcherson’s speedboat whilst doing 80 in the Sporades. This is nothing.”

Patrick only understands about two-thirds of that sentence, so he just nods and says, “Pizza’s here. Will you guys grab some plates and napkins when you’re done, and meet me out back?”

It’s shaping up to be a perfect fall night, the sky clear as daylight fades to dusk. Patrick arranges the pizza on the little patio table outside and lights the bonfire. David and Stevie join him shortly with the plates and napkins as requested, plus the cider and wine.

Patrick can’t help the embarrassing noise that escapes him when he spots what David is wearing.

“What?” David says, catching Patrick’s gaze. He slides his hands down his front and tilts his chin up, like he’s daring Patrick to say something mean.

“That’s… my shirt,” Patrick manages.

David’s wearing Patrick’s red flannel, the snaps done all the way up. It was always big on Patrick, so it’s small on David but not by much, the fabric pulling just slightly across his chest and shoulders.

“You left it in the kitchen,” David says, his voice pitched high in defense. He tugs at one cuff. “What was I supposed to do? Get bonfire smoke in my Balmain?”

“No, of course, that would be unacceptable,” Patrick recovers, sliding into that familiar teasing tone he seems to have on permanent reserve for David.

“Exactly,” David nods, something like relief brightening his features. He piles a plate with pizza and plops himself into one of the chairs Patrick has set up next to the fire.

Stevie mixes the drinks, handing a mug to each of them filled with the cider/wine concoction. A comfortable silence settles over them as they eat and sip their mugs, the sound of the crackling fire filling the air.

“This is nice,” David comments after a while. He’s finished his pizza and leans forward in his seat with his hands folded in his lap, staring into the fire.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “It’s a nice fire pit. I bet you guys get out here a lot when you’re here.”

“Never,” David tells him. Stevie shrugs, shaking her head.

“This is way better than what we’d normally be doing, huh, David?” she says, and David nods.

“What would you normally be doing?” Patrick asks.

“Getting drunk and eating garbage and watching trashy reality TV,” she tells him.

“You’re still getting drunk and eating garbage, though,” Patrick points out.

“Yeah, but there’s a bonfire,” Stevie says.

“And the house is all lit up and warm,” David says, his voice brittle. 

“And decorated,” Stevie needles him.

“And decorated,” he allows, rolling his eyes.

“I never really understood the appeal of trashy reality TV,” Patrick confesses after another long sip from his mug. Stevie was right; it’s surprisingly good. “Like, you want to waste time watching a bunch of strangers be petty and attention-seeking?”

“Absolutely, we do,” David confirms.

“It’s therapeutic,” Stevie adds. “Making fun of how pathetic everyone is makes us feel better about how pathetic our own small lives are.”

David stares into the fire, a small rueful smile on his face.

“Were,” he says quietly.

“What?” Stevie says.

“Were. How pathetic our lives were. Some of us don’t have a life anymore,” he tells her. There’s no plea for sympathy in his voice. No ‘woe is me’ undertone. He’s simply stating a fact. Patrick feels his chest constrict.

“Oh. Right,” Stevie says.

Another silence falls over them, this one awkward and sad, before David breaks it, standing up suddenly and wiping his eyes with both hands.

“Ugh, sorry,” he announces. “Apparently knowing how to fuck up a good time is something that stays with you even after death. I’m, um, I’m just going to go to bed, I think. Forget about me.”

Patrick grabs his wrist as he walks past. “David, wait…”

“Yeah, don’t go, David,” Stevie insists. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.”

“No, you’re not,” David huffs a watery laugh. “I’m the asshole. I know you didn’t mean anything. I’m just being emotional.”

“Guys? Maybe no one’s an asshole?” Patrick suggests. “Maybe this is just a really shitty situation, and we’re all doing our best?”

Stevie and David exchange a look.

“Gross. Such a rational thing to say,” Stevie starts.

“So sensible. I’m disgusted,” David finishes.

“And they’re back,” Patrick says. He can feel a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth and does his best to clamp it down. Letting the two of them in on how charmed he is by them feels dangerous. David looks down at him, his lips tilting to the side and eyes sparkling in amusement.

“What?” Patrick asks him.

“Nothing. Can I have my hand back, please?”

Patrick realizes he’s still gripping David’s wrist. He drops it immediately, feeling his cheeks flush.

David returns to his seat, a small smile on his face.

“So,” Stevie begins. “Now that we’re on the topic of you being dead…”

“Mmm love where this is headed so far,” David says.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I guess. But I reserve the right to tell you to fuck off.”

“David,” Stevie says, a hand over her heart and voice dripping with false sincerity. “You can _always_ tell me to fuck off. I can’t believe you even felt like you needed to say that.”

“Okay, ask your stupid question.”

“Where do you go?” she says. “When you’re not here. When you’re really… dead. What’s it like?”

“It isn’t like anything,” David says, shrugging a shoulder. He grabs his mug and takes a drink. “I don’t go anywhere. It’s like being asleep, I guess.”

“But, when you come back. Does it feel like any time has passed? Or it’s like, you blink on October 31st, and when you open your eyes, it’s October 25th again?”

David shakes his head slowly. He takes in a sharp breath. “I don’t know. I guess, it just all feels the same. Like, even the memories from when I was alive. It doesn’t feel like anything’s changed.”

Patrick squeezes the hand that had held David’s wrist into a fist. He can still feel David’s pulse under his fingertips. It feels like someone’s idea of a cruel joke.

“That’s what sucks so much, you know?” David goes on, emphasizing each word. “Nothing has changed. I haven’t changed, I haven’t– and now I never will.”

“David–” Patrick starts.

“No, it’s,” David shakes his head, and maybe Patrick can’t see that well, with only the firelight and the lights from the back porch, but he can hear in David’s voice that he’s crying now. “It’s fine. I just– my whole life, I always felt like I didn’t fit, you know? Like I was always too different, or too much, or like I had to hide a part of myself to fit in. And I guess deep down I always hoped I’d find somewhere, eventually, where I didn’t have to do that anymore. Like I always thought that eventually, I’d figure out where I fit. And it just– it fucking sucks that that won’t ever happen now. And like, even in the afterlife, I still can’t get it right. Like I still can’t find where I’m supposed to be, even as a ghost. And I’m just stuck like this.”

“David,” Stevie whispers so softly Patrick isn’t even sure she said it.

Patrick lays a hand on David’s knee. He knows there’s literally nothing he could say right now to help David, but he hopes at least a grounding touch will help in some tiny way. David hiccups a sigh and lays his hand over Patrick’s, gripping his fingers.

“I’m pretty sure I was running away,” he says softly.

“Wh– the night you died, you mean?”

David nods. “When I remembered trying to steal Roland’s truck? I got this feeling, like I was trying to get away. Like I wanted to leave and never come back.”

Patrick hums. “Well, that’s a new piece of the puzzle, for sure. But it still doesn’t answer why you’d come here if you were running away.”

“Yeah, but it might speak to why my unfinished business looks a lot like me being trapped in the house from Casper in a town that I was actively trying to leave the night that I died.”

“It does?”

David nods sagely. When he speaks, his voice is still watery, but some of the spark is back in his eyes. “This is some Dante Alighieri bullshit,” he says. “It’s like, whatever circle of hell really pretty, formerly wealthy, constantly beleaguered people get.” 

“I’m going to guess fourth?” Patrick wagers.

“Third,” Stevie says matter-of-factly, before turning to David. “You tried to steal Roland’s truck?”

Once Stevie has been completely filled in on the new developments in Operation Solve David’s Murder, the evening begins to wind down. Patrick sends David and Stevie inside to put away the dinner mess while he puts out the fire. It takes him a while to hose the embers down, and by the time he makes it inside, everything’s been put away and most of the lights are off.

He finds David curled up on the sofa, his hands in fists tucked up under his chin. Patrick pulls the blanket from the back and lays it across him. David opens his eyes, blinking slowly up at Patrick.

“Where’s Stevie?” Patrick whispers.

“Home.”

“Her car’s still here.”

“Walked,” David murmurs, his eyes falling closed again.

“You good to sleep here?” Patrick asks him. It occurs to him he doesn’t actually know where David normally sleeps.

“Mmhmm, comfy,” David says. “Are you staying?”

Patrick pauses, considering. David had definitely had a rough night. If he wanted Patrick to stay. If he felt like he might need him…?

“I should probably head back to Ray’s,” he hedges.

“’kay,” David whispers, sighing as his body relaxes deeper into the cushions. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, David.”

Patrick makes sure to double-check that all the doors and windows are locked before he leaves, but he’s already got his phone in his hand when he finally walks out the door.

He’s got another idea of how to help cheer David up.

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

Patrick spends the next morning at Ray’s, coordinating with the cleaning and landscaping crews and drawing up the details package he’ll use to promote the listing. He manages to shoot off a quick text warning David that Ronnie will be coming by to start on the floor repairs bright and early, but he doesn’t hear anything back. He knows David isn’t a morning person, so Patrick can only hope that he sees the text before Ronnie gets there. 

As the morning wears on, Patrick tries not to take it personally that he hasn’t heard anything from David. It’s not like they’ve texted much in the last few days. Patrick has been spending so much time at the estate, there’s been no need to. And even though he likes to think that he and David are friends, they barely know each other. David’s much closer with Stevie, Patrick reasons, so if he feels the need to talk to anyone about the things he’d said at the bonfire last night, surely he’d reach out to her before he’d ever reach out to Patrick.

He finally finishes up at Ray’s just before one o’clock. He swings by the café to pick up lunch for himself and David, plus a couple of slices of a pretty serviceable-looking pumpkin roll, and then rushes over to the estate. His hands are full with takeout bags when he finally shoulders his way through the front door.

“Oh my god, drop dead, David!”

“Too late!”

Patrick follows the shrill sound of voices arguing into the kitchen, where he finds David pacing, one hand waving furiously through the air while the other holds his phone up in front of his face. Patrick doesn’t need to see the screen to know who David’s talking to. Or, arguing with. He’d been the one to schedule this little meeting after all. He just hadn’t expected, when he’d done it, that David talking to his family would look like this.

“You left me here,” David accuses, practically shrieking. “Your own son _dies_ , and you just jet-set off to the nearest resort town first chance you get like I never even existed.”

“Oh, now who’s being dra-ma-tic,” a voice coos, and Patrick recognizes it as Mrs. Rose’s.

“We didn’t leave you, son,” Mr. Rose asserts.

“Oh?” David makes a show of looking around. “So, you’re here? I’m sorry, I can’t seem to see you behind all the gaping empty space around me.” He spots Patrick then, the storm cloud that’s settled over his features breaking up for an instant before he rolls his eyes melodramatically.

Patrick smirks back and raises his eyebrows. He sets the food down on the counter.

“You know what, Patrick’s here, I can’t talk to you anymore,” David tells his phone.

“Okay, David, tell me. Is he cute? Because he sounded cute on the phone, and I think that could be a very good look for you.”

“Oh my god, Alexis? You are literally on video chat right now. So.”

“…Okay, so he heard that.”

“Mmhmm,” David affirms.

“Hi, Alexis,” Patrick calls, coming behind David to peer over his shoulder. “Mr. & Mrs. Rose.”

“Oh, Patrick! Sweetheart, look, it’s Patrick.”

“Yes, hello, dear.”

“Ooh, David. He _is_ cute.”

“Okay, goodbye,” David grits out. “Goodbye to all of you. I can’t, with this.”

“Goodbye, son.”

“Yes, goodbye David, we love you!”

“Byeee!”

“Ugh.” David disconnects and tosses his phone on the counter. “I’m sorry for… all of that,” he tells Patrick, grimacing.

“No, don’t be,” Patrick chuckles. “I think your family are very entertaining.”

“Hmm.” David purses his lips. “Not the word my therapist used to use.”

“I’m sorry if talking to them upset you,” Patrick says. “I thought it would help. I was trying to cheer you up.”

“No, it did! I mean, it didn’t upset me,” David insists. “It was… nice. To see them, and hear their voices.”

“Kind of sounded like their voices were a little yelly, though,” Patrick offers. “Yours, too.”

“No, that’s just how we talk,” David tells him. He puts a hand on Patrick’s arm. “It was very nice of you to arrange for them to call me. Thank you.”

“It was no big deal.”

“It was a very big deal.”

“Well,” Patrick clears his throat and takes a step toward the counter, missing David’s hand on his arm the second he moves away. “If you liked me for that, you’re going to love me for this.” He pulls the smaller container from the plastic bag first and slides it across the counter to David.

“Ooh what’s this?” David singsongs, shimmying his shoulders.

“Open it and see.”

David opens it, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Pumpkin roll!”

“You were just saying the other day how you’ve been craving one,” Patrick reminds him.

“Oh my god, it smells amazing.”

“Yeah, well it came from the café, so who knows how it’ll actually taste, but–” Patrick loses his train of thought, distracted by the way David has reached out to rub small circles into Patrick’s shoulder. He doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing it, eyes still fixed on the pumpkin roll.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming today,” David says.

“I had a lot of work to get done at Ray’s this morning, but I had to come see how Ronnie’s doing with the repairs.”

It’s not a flimsy excuse, Patrick reasons. There is some truth to it. He did have to check on the status of the repairs. He didn’t have to tell Ray it would take him the rest of the day to do it, or that he probably wouldn’t be back for dinner because he was hanging out with his “cousin.”

David seems to accept Patrick’s explanation at face value, however. Too distracted by the pumpkin roll, no doubt.

“Besides,” Patrick goes on, unable to resist. “We still have to finish putting up all the Halloween decorations.”

“Do we, though?” David pouts, scrunching his face. “I feel like we’re good on trashy, dollar stores skeletons and glittery spiders. I mean, we don’t have to put up _everything_ you and Stevie bought yesterday.”

“Oh, no, we’re putting up everything,” Patrick insists. “I might even go out later and get more decorations, just to be sure we have enough.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” David breathes, his slanted smile betraying him.

Patrick chooses not to respond. He gestures to the food spread across the counter. “Do you want dessert now, or lunch first and have it later?”

“Let’s have lunch first,” David says. “I’m starving.”

They set up an impromptu picnic on the floor in the foyer, admiring Ronnie’s patch job. She’s laid new planks across the hole and sanded down the old ones to get them ready for fresh stain, which Ray had already told him she’d be back to do tomorrow. It’s looking a little mismatched, but Patrick knows that once the stain is on it’ll look like the damage never happened. 

Patrick balances a takeout container across his knees. “So, how were they? Your family?”

David waves a dismissive hand while he quickly chews and swallows a bite of his sandwich.

“The usual,” he says. “Self-centered and obtuse.”

“But you’re glad you spoke to them?” Patrick still wonders if he did the right thing in texting Mr. Rose, insisting they reach out to David.

David seems to consider it, a faraway look in his eye. Finally, he says, “I am. I miss them. Even if they are thoughtless and infuriating, and I want to push them each individually off a cliff sometimes.”

Patrick snorts, because yeah, that sounds very on brand for what he knows of the Rose family so far. 

“They seemed… happy. To talk to me, too,” David says.

“They miss you,” Patrick insists. “That’s why they’ve stayed away, I think. Not because they don’t care. Because it’s too hard to…have you and not have you.”

Patrick feels a pit form in his stomach. He finally understands how the Roses must have felt, trapped in this town after what happened to David, knowing that they’d only be able to spend a few days with him each year. Knowing that it would never be enough. 

“Imagine how I feel,” David says, and Patrick thinks he probably meant it to sound like a joke, but it doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, David.”

David gives him a sad smile, and before Patrick can think too hard about it, he leans in and closes the space between them, his lips finding David’s in a soft kiss. It’s too awkward, with their food spread out between them, for either of them to deepen it, but Patrick thinks it’s still one of the best kisses he’s ever had.

Suddenly, David pulls back, eyes wide.

“Oh my god. _Jake,_ ” he says. 

“Uh, no. Still Patrick.” And he may be slightly off his game around David, but Patrick has never, in the history of the handful of other guys he’s kissed, had any of them call him by some other guy’s name.

“No, I mean,” David stumbles, “obviously, yes, you’re Patrick. I meant– I just thought of someone else who might have– well, he probably wouldn’t want me dead. But we had a history. He could’ve… if he had called, I would’ve met him here, probably.”

David is blushing furiously and staring somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. Patrick gets the feeling that when David says that he and this Jake person ‘had a history,’ it means exactly what it sounds like.

“So he’s, like, your ex?” Patrick asks, trying to keep his voice and face normal.

David rolls his eyes. “He’s, like, everyone’s ex. He’s also Stevie’s ex. It’s a whole thing.”

Patrick nods like he gets it, though he doesn’t, really. David hadn’t mentioned an ex, other than a brief thing with Stevie when they were still figuring out their friendship. Was he still hung up on this Jake guy? Is that why he was thinking about him when Patrick kissed him? 

“I can talk to him, if you want,” Patrick offers.

“You don’t have to do that,” David responds immediately. “Stevie could -”

“No, I want to talk to him, David. It’s fine. If he knows something, we need to know.”


	3. How does one person need this many sharp tools?

There’s a sign taped to Jake’s front door that says, “Around back,” so that’s where Patrick’s headed when he realizes what a colossally stupid idea this is.

Not only is he approaching David’s ex with absolutely no real knowledge of the guy or what his relationship with David was like (that stupid part of the larger stupid plan he’d already wrapped his head around), but now, he’s also realizing that he’s wandering “around back” at a total stranger’s and potential murder suspect’s home, and no one except a _ghost_ knows that he’s there.

 _The guy could be a killer,_ the voice in Patrick’s head that sounds weirdly like David suggests. _He could be dangerous._

 _Even worse,_ and okay, **that** voice sounds like Patrick, _he could be gorgeous and still in love with David. And David could be in love with him._

Rounding the corner does nothing to calm Patrick’s fears. “Around back” is apparently some kind of workshop, though it could easily pinch hit as a kill room? There are tarps, just, everywhere. Large blocks of wood and sharp-looking tools of all kinds. And saws? Many, many hand saws.

There’s music coming from inside the shop. It sounds like one of those haunted house ambient CDs his classmates’ moms used to play at Halloween parties he’d attended in grade school. Rattling chains. A wolf’s howl. The occasional wail of some mournful spirit. It wouldn’t be creepy, normally. Patrick’s a grown ass man. But among the sharp saws and pointy tools and wholesale supply of tarps, it’s slightly more effective than it had been in Jason Myers’ basement rec room. 

How does one person need this many sharp tools? Just as Patrick’s deciding how best to sneak back to his car without being spotted, a figure pops out of nowhere, scaring him half to death.

The figure is tall and muscular. He’s wearing a thick leather apron over his clothes, work gloves that reach his elbows, and a face shield, like you’d need when using a blowtorch. He’s holding a massive knife in his hand.

Patrick can feel his heart beating in his throat.

“Hey, man,” the figure says, lifting his shield to reveal, _oh._

Oh, shit. He _is_ gorgeous.

“I’m Jake,” the guy –fucking Jake, apparently– says, tucking the knife under his arm so he can peel off a glove and extend his hand for Patrick to shake.

“Uh. Patrick.”

“Cool. What can I do for you, Patrick?” Jake steps back into the shop, apparently confident that Patrick will follow, which he does, like an idiot.

Jake has a table pushed along one wall with, of course, a tarp on it. On top of the tarp is a sizeable collection of jack o’lanterns, carved into all sorts of hideous, grotesque, violent expressions.

Alarm bells are ringing in Patrick’s brain. _Get out get out get out_ , it helpfully supplies.

He’s ripped from his thoughts by a crunch and a wet sawing sound. When he turns around, Jake is hacking the top off of yet another pumpkin with the huge knife.

“You’re really into jack o’lanterns, huh?” Patrick says.

“What?” Jake asks, pushing his face shield up again with his forearm. He looks down at the pumpkin like he doesn’t quite get it. “Oh, this. Yeah, no, it’s for charity. The youth crisis center in Elmfield does a haunted house every year to raise money.”

“So you donate all of these?”

“Old Man Hockley does. I just carve ‘em. I mean, I have all the tools,” Jake uses the knife to gesture lazily at the shop around them. 

“Huh.”

“I’m headed over in a little bit to deliver these, actually. Be great if you wanted to come.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I could always use an extra set of hands. You look like a guy who knows what to do with his hands.”

“That’s– oh. I’m– thank you,” Patrick stutters. The confidence on this guy. “I’m actually here to, uh, talk to you. About David Rose.”

“Oh. David, wow. Yeah, I can talk. Let me get this stuff off.” Jake carefully peels his gear off and dumps everything in a pile on the nearest workbench. “I’m going to fix a drink, you want? Whiskey?”

“I’m good.”

Jake pours himself a finger and meanders toward Patrick, coming to a stop just a little too close.

“This is gorgeous on you, by the way.” He rubs the material of Patrick’s green Henley between his fingers. “Really brings out your lips.”

_Wow._

“I… thanks?”

Jake takes a sip of his whiskey, and Patrick definitely does not follow the way the muscles in his neck work as he swallows.

“So, what did you want to know about David?”

“I’m more interested in your relationship with David,” Patrick says. “Were you guys serious?”

And yes, Patrick knows this line of questioning isn’t entirely relevant. But it’s relevant-adjacent. He was here to _investigate_ Jake, after all. Besides, Jonathan Groff’s character on Mindhunter went off script during interviews all the time. He’d been watching it ever since David brought it up.

“Oh, not really,” Jake says casually. Everything Jake does is casual, Patrick’s noticed. “David was a good friend.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, he was amazing in bed,” Jake goes on, and Patrick coughs to try to hide whatever it is his face does at that. 

“He could do this thing where–” Jake curls his fingers and flicks his wrist in a lude gesture that Patrick doesn’t even want to begin to try to interpret.

“Oh-kay!” Patrick cuts him off with an awkward laugh.

“And his lips were so soft,” Jake says earnestly.

“That’s, yeah.” Patrick leans back against the table with all the pumpkins, his fingers gripping the tarp-covered edge of it awkwardly before he crosses his arms over his chest. “When, um, when was the last time you saw him?”

“Dunno,” Jake says. “Few weeks before he died, I guess. I took David and Stevie out to dinner. I wanted us all to date, you know? But David wasn’t into it, so.” Jake shrugs.

Patrick doesn’t understand any of that. Jake wanted them _all_ to date? David _and_ Stevie _and_ him? David definitely hadn’t mentioned that.

“That must have been hard for you. When David, uh, turned you down?” Patrick tries his best to channel JGroff.

“Not really,” Jake says. Patrick tries to stare him down, get him to confess to…something. At least admit that he was heartbroken when David broke it off, like any person with half a brain cell would be. But there’s no pain in Jake’s eyes. No guilt. Other than staring heatedly at Patrick’s mouth every so often, there’s no sign that Jake feels much of anything. 

“Well, clearly we were– _I_ was way off base here,” Patrick says finally, suddenly anxious to get back to David. “I’m, um, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Jake nods, pursing his lips. “Thanks, man. And hey, I meant what I said, if you want to come with me to Elmfield. Maybe we could hang out after…?”

“Oh, nope. No, thank you.”

“No worries. If you ever wanna grab a drink, I’m around.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“Well, that was enlightening.”

David is hovering (not literally) just inside the front door again, wringing his hands, when Patrick returns to the house.

“What did he say? Did he see me that night?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Patrick tells him. “He, uh, he said the last time he saw you was the night he tried to get you _all_ to date?” Patrick quirks an eyebrow.

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So I have some questions about that.”

“Okay, look, it wasn’t exactly the most meaningful relationship I’ve ever been in. Jake was hot, but there wasn’t much of an emotional connection there. It was mostly physical.”

“Yeah,” Patrick huffs a startled little laugh. “Jake had a few choice things to say about the physicality of your relationship.”

“Oh my god, what did he say?” David winces.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to get into that right now,” Patrick can feel himself blush high up on his cheeks. He moves past David and makes his way into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

“Hmm. Well, there you go then.” David follows behind him, and Patrick doesn’t need to see him to picture the way he’s using his hands to speak as much as his words. “You’ve met Jake, so. You get the appeal.”

Patrick takes a moment to consider while he fills the kettle and sets it on the burner.

“Look, David, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable before,” he says.

“What? When?”

Patrick rolls his eyes in frustration. He grabs the tea from the cupboard. “When I kissed you,” he clarifies.

“Oh,” David bites the inside of his cheek, looking confused, “you didn’t.” At Patrick’s uncertain glance, he goes on. “You didn’t. I’m glad you did it.”

“It reminded you of Jake, though.”

David looks even more confused.

“You said his name, like, _while_ I was kissing you, David,” Patrick tries not to sound accusatory. He’s still so embarrassed about it.

“No, that’s not.” David clears his throat. “That’s not what that was. I wasn’t thinking about Jake.”

“Again,” Patrick feels the need to point out, “you said his n–”

“I was thinking about how different it felt,” David says exasperatedly, arms arcing out in a circle. He starts again, softer. “I was thinking about how different you are from everyone who– from everyone.”

Patrick can feel his face breaking out into a blinding grin and tries to school his features. He wants to laugh, long and loud, but the thread pulling him toward David feels tenuous, and he’s afraid that any sudden display of affection might snap it.

“Oh,” he says, unable to keep how pleased he is from seeping into his voice.

“I was just reminded of Jake,” David continues, his own mouth twisting into a poorly contained smile, “because he was the last person who was… not… like you.” 

“Got it.”

Patrick goes back to prepping his tea, letting David’s confession settle over them, blooming into something warm and soothing, the thread pulling them toward each other becoming a little more secure. 

“He asked me to, uh, hang out,” Patrick confides, expecting David to laugh, the two of them sharing in the joke. 

“Mmm yes, the casual hang out. A Jake classic.” David doesn’t laugh. He fidgets with the collar of his sweater, tucks a fist under her chin. “And is that something you’d be interested in?”

“What?”

“’Hanging out’ with Jake.” David uses actual air quotes, his eyes rolling.

“No,” Patrick says, surprised. “I mean, he seems like a nice guy, but I’m not interested.”

“You don’t have to be coy with me, Patrick,” David says, one edge of his mouth quirking up in a playful smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I know, from experience, the effect that Jake has on people. And okay, listen, I am not one to slut shame,” he puts a finger in the air, “but Jake is the village door knob. Everyone’s had their turn. There’d be nothing wrong with you taking yours.”

“That’s not what I want, David,” Patrick says firmly.

What is David doing? Hadn’t he just said that Patrick was different? Didn’t he realize that the reverse was also true? David Rose was unlike anyone he’d ever met before. Why would he be interested in someone like Jake when he could have…

What? Patrick suddenly wonders. What could he have with David? They were only guaranteed one more day. After that? Either David did finally move on, in which case Patrick would never see him again, or he came back next year, and every year after, for one week and one week only. How could that ever be enough?

Patrick needs out of this conversation, before he says something that’s going to make everything worse. Before he asks for something he can’t have, that David can’t give him. 

“You know what I do want?” he says instead.

“What?”

“To finish putting out these damn decorations. Halloween is tomorrow, David. How will the trick-or-treaters know where to go if we don’t have all the glittery spiders up?”

David bites the inside of his cheek again, his dimple popping out. “Don’t forget about the dollar store skeletons,” he says.

“I would never forget about the skeletons.”

David finds the same cheesy playlist they listened to the day before, blaring it over the Bluetooth Stevie had left behind, and he and Patrick set to work. They’ve developed a rhythm by now, moving around each other through the house, passing decorations and tape and Command hooks back and forth. Mostly it’s Patrick up on the ladder while David instructs him precisely where to hang everything, his hands waving back and forth like he’s directing an airplane as it taxis down the runway. 

It’s almost dark by the time they’ve nearly finished, a hazy sort of fog settling over the lawn as night slinks across the grass.

“Did you mean what you said?” David asks, apropos of nothing while they’re affixing a pair of legs to the house out front. It’s meant to look like a witch crashed her broom into the house, Patrick had explained. David had declared the entire thing ‘an affront to the very pillars of refined society’ but agreed to help put it up anyway.

“About what?” Patrick is up on the porch railing, trying to keep his balance and get the legs lined up just right. They should’ve brought the ladder out here.

“Trick-or-treaters? Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to be handing out candy to a bunch of little gremlins?”

“They won’t know you’re a ghost,” Patrick says. He grips a hand on David’s shoulder and uses it to guide himself down from the railing. “It was just a thought. If you don’t want to we won’t, obviously. But we can’t exactly go out for Halloween. I thought this might be a fun way to let Halloween come to us.”

“Oh, so you would be here, then? You want to pass out candy together?” David asks him.

“Yeah. Oh, unless you don’t want me to? Sorry, I should’ve asked–”

“No, I want you to.” David puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. “I just– I thought you might have plans.”

“I don’t have plans,” Patrick says. “My plan was to order some food, pick out a movie, watch you eat most of the candy I bought, and give whatever’s left to anyone who happens to come to the door.”

“Okay, I’m going to ignore the part of the plan that sounds like a personal attack on my character, because the rest of that sounds really nice,” David says.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Um, if I may make a request?”

“I’m shocked that you would have a request to make,” Patrick says, brushing past David to head inside.

“I would like to choose the movie.”

“Oh. Sure, David.” Patrick moves through house. It's fully dark, but he knows it so well by now that he doesn't bother turning on any of the lights until he gets to the kitchen.

“…That was already part of the plan, wasn’t it?”

“I guess now we’ll never know.”

Patrick rummages around for dinner ideas. Stevie’s been keeping David well-stocked in instant ramen, easy mac, and frozen pizzas, but Patrick thought he’d seen an honest-to-god box of real pasta somewhere around here. Maybe he could whip something together with what they had on hand.

“We don’t have to, like, dress up to pass out candy, right?” David leans against the kitchen counter, watching as Patrick roots around.

“We could.”

“No, I don’t think we should. I haven’t dressed up for Halloween in years, and my last costume was not well-received, so.”

Patrick locates the box of pasta and gives a little whoop when he finds a can of tomato sauce in one of the cabinets. He doesn’t want to examine the expiration date too closely. What’s a little botulism when one of you is already dead?

“What was your last costume, David?” he asks innocently.

“If you must know, I was Cher. Specifically, Cher as Loretta from the 1987 classic, Moonstruck.”

“Wow.”

“It was a very underappreciated look.”

“Do you have any pictures of you in this costume, or–”

“None that you will ever see.”

“Hmm. So the likelihood of me talking you into recreating it for this year is–”

“Non-existent.”

“Got it.” Patrick starts the water to boil and dumps the sauce into a pan, setting it on low while he forages in the fridge for anything they might be able to add to it. Maybe he could repurpose some of their leftovers from the café…

“We could dress up, though, if you wanted to,” he tries again with David. “I can always throw together a baseball uniform pretty quickly, and I could pick up anything you’d need for–”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” David says. “Unless you think I should be a zombie? I am technically undead, for another day at least.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Patrick says, snapping his fingers. “Ghostbusters.”

“What about them?”

“I’ll be Dr. Venkman…”

“We’re gonna talk about how you, just, know the character’s name off the top of your head like that.”

“…and you can be Slimer.”

David actually tuts at him.

“Okay,” he says scornfully.

“What? You’re a ghost.” Patrick channels his inner Alexis, not an easy feat for him. “I think it could be a very cute look for you.” 

“Mmkay, keep that up, and I won’t be the only dead guy around here.”

Patrick’s just about to volley back when, suddenly, there’s a loud, wet, crunching sound of something hitting the front window.

“What the fuck!” David exclaims, ducking down like they’re under attack.

Patrick moves to the front door, peering through the beveled edge of the frosted glass. Through the fog, he can just make out figures on the front lawn.

“It’s a bunch of kids,” he tells David. “I think they’re egging us.” Another wet crunch punctuates his statement. “Yep. Definitely egging us.”

David’s suddenly beside him, crowding in close so he can see what Patrick’s seeing.

“Those unwashed bastards,” he seethes, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m going to beat their little…”

“David,” Patrick stops him with a hand on his arm. “You can’t go out there and assault a bunch of children.”

“Teenagers. Not the same thing.”

“Whatever. Let’s just call the cops.”

“Patrick,” David gasps, admonishing. “This is a haunted house. What kind of ghost would I be if I didn’t go out there and terrorize the local hoodlums who dare to disturb my eternal resting place?”

Patrick’s about to argue but reconsiders. It would be funny, and David doesn’t get to have nearly enough fun, in Patrick’s opinion.

“Okay,” he says finally. “No physical violence, though. You’ll have to be a little more creative than that.”

“Oh, I can be creative,” David says, shimmying as he vanishes from sight.

Patrick goes back to watching the kids outside, debates flipping on the porch light to make them scatter. But he wants to see how this plays out. He’s just beginning to wander what the hell’s taking David so long when he hears a shriek from outside. The scene erupts into chaos as the kids run back and forth, screaming and wiping at their clothes, their faces.

In the middle of it all, he can just make out David, all in black. He’s using the same trick he likes to use on Patrick, popping in and out before they even realize he’s there, and when he gets close enough to one of them, Patrick can see him throwing something at them.

“How do you like it, you little hobgoblins?” David’s voice rings out. “You want vandalism? I’ll show you vandalism!”

Eventually, the teens get it together enough to all run off in the same direction, back toward the street, David waving his arms high above his head as he calls after them, “I hope you find razorblades in your candy!”

“David.” Patrick steps onto the porch just as the last of the kids has run shrieking into the night.

“Huh?” David’s breathless, panting on the lawn.

“Did you just egg those kids?”

“They started it.”

“I thought I said no physical violence?”

“What’s violent about eggs?”

“I think throwing something directly at someone’s face counts as violence? But, it was funny as hell to watch, so I’m going to let you off on a technicality.”

David tromps up the stairs and joins Patrick on the porch. He’s smiling sunnily, bright and loose with amusement.

“That was cathartic,” he says, laughing, and Patrick can’t help it. He kisses him.

This isn’t like the all-too-brief kiss they’d shared over lunch earlier. This kiss turns heated fast. David’s hands come up to frame Patrick’s face as Patrick’s steps in, grabbing David’s sides and pulling him close.

David makes a small noise in the back of his throat and Patrick runs his tongue along David’s mouth to get him to open up so he can chase it. He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, practically making out on the front porch. Eventually, Patrick has to pull away to catch his breath, and then he’s resting his forehead against David’s, both of them panting, but neither one moving away.

“That worked for you, huh?” David says, a trace of laughter still in his voice as he finally raises his head. “Me scaring off those youths?”

“You looked so happy,” Patrick tells him, pulling back a bit more so he can look David in the eye. “ _That_ worked for me.”

“I am happy,” David tells him, his face open and honest. Patrick ducks in to kiss him again, just once.

“Looks good on you,” he says, and pulls David back inside.

Patrick, in an impressive feat of mental fortitude, remembers to shut off the burners on the stove, but after that, he loses all access to higher brain function. He has no idea how much time passes with David in his arms, the two of them curled around each other on the busted old sofa in the den trading slow, languid kisses.

“I wish I would’ve met you sooner,” Patrick tells him when they part for air. “I wish I would have known you back then.”

“What, why?” David’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You would’ve hated me,” David insists. “I was not a nice person.”

“Ah, yes, and you’re such an angel now.” David digs a sharp elbow into his ribs, and Patrick laughs. “I wouldn’t have hated you,” he tells David with certainty. “I would have liked you.”

David hums like he doesn’t believe him.

“I would’ve thought you were cute.” Patrick locks his fingers around the opposite wrist where his arms are looped around David’s waist. “I would’ve wanted to ask you out.”

“That’s a given,” David says sardonically.

“What about me? Would you have thought I was cute?” He nuzzles David’s jaw.

“…No.”

“You’re a lousy liar, David Rose.”

Patrick gets distracted by David’s mouth again, for a while, until he grows hot and uncomfortable in his jeans and has to pull back again. He isn’t in a hurry to take this thing to its inevitable conclusion any time soon. He wants to take his time with David. David seems content to take a timeout as well, resting his chin on Patrick’s chest and looking up at him through dark lashes.

“I wish it could be you,” he says, a soft murmur.

“What could?” Patrick runs a hand down David’s back.

“Who bought this place,” David explains. “I wish when I come back next year, if I come back, it could be you.”

Patrick sighs. “Me too. I’ve, uh, I’ve actually been trying? To figure out how that could work.”

“You have?”

Patrick stills his hand on David’s back, relishing in the firm warmth of David under his palm.

“I don’t have the money to buy it outright. Obviously. But I’ve been looking into loans. And there are grants you can apply for, if you’re renovating an historic home. I’ve already applied to a few, but I don’t know if I’ll get them. Even if I do, it could be too late. I don’t know how fast this place’ll sell once it’s listed.”

David doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment Patrick thinks he’s shown his cards too soon. Maybe he should have kept what he was doing to himself.

“Maybe my parents,” David says softly. “They’re not as well-off as they once were, but they’re doing better now. Maybe they could help you with some of the money.”

And now Patrick knows he did the right thing in telling him, because it means he gets to see David’s face when he tells him the next part. 

“They already are. Your dad offered to go in with me if I can get the rest of the money. He can’t– it’s not a lot, but it’s as much as he has.”

David’s eyes are shining in the soft light, and he’s biting his lip hard. To keep from laughing or crying, Patrick doesn’t know.

“We’re trying, David,” Patrick whispers. It doesn’t feel like enough.

“Thank you,” David whispers back, voice strained. “Even if it doesn’t happen, I– this has been the best few days I’ve had in a really long time.”

Patrick smiles, moves his hands to grip at David’s sides, and David goes on, his voice sounding steadier.

“And even if I come back next year and they’ve turned this place into a Christmas World, I won’t forget it.”

“You won’t have to,” Patrick tells him. “I’ll come back next year. Make sure you have the best week ever, no matter what.”

“You don’t have to do that. I know that’s a lot to–”

“David,” Patrick hauls David up and cuts him off with a kiss, “I’ll come back. I promise.”

Then David is wrapping his arms around Patrick’s neck and hauling him in closer, and Patrick doesn’t want to take his time anymore.

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

He wakes up the next morning in David’s bed with a pit in his stomach. It’s Halloween, David’s last day, and Patrick feels like he’s going to drown in the feeling of dread that threatens to overwhelm him if he doesn’t get up and _move_.

He can tell from the way the light filters gray and weak through the windows as he dresses that it’s early. Too early to wake David. Patrick drops a soft kiss on his temple and slips out of the room, padding softly down the stairs. He pulls on his boots and flannel and makes his way out to the fire pit. 

A short while later, Patrick curses whoever’s in charge of these kinds of things that the morning breaks golden and beautiful, figures it should match the gloom that’s settled in himself. The sugar maples that line the back of the property are dropping their leaves en masse, heavy with dew, the honeyed citrus burst of them swirling beautifully through the air.

Patrick can’t look at them, focuses on the pile of cold ashes in front of him. But no matter how hard he stares, he doesn’t find any answers.

“I didn’t know they did that.”

Patrick didn’t hear David come outside, too distracted by his own brooding to notice. He’s wrapped tightly in the comforter from his bed, looking rumpled yet peaceful as he watches the leaves fall.

“We had a cold snap last night, that’s why they’re all coming down at once like that,” Patrick explains. “The frost cuts the leaf off where it connects to the tree. Then the weight makes it drop faster than it normally would.”

“Is that bad?” David looks concerned. “Will it hurt the trees?”

“Maybe a little,” Patrick shrugs, his throat suddenly tight. “But the trees know how to withstand a loss like that.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” David murmurs.

“What are you doing up, anyway?” Patrick tries to color his expression, his voice, with a brightness that he doesn’t feel. “I thought any time before nine, and I quote, doesn’t exist in your reality?”

David thrusts something in Patrick’s face. “Your phone wouldn’t shut up,” he says.

Patrick takes it from him, thumbing in his PIN and checking his notifications. He’s got a few emails, along with a couple texts from Ray and one from the foreman of the landscaping crew.

“Is it the other ghost you’re seeing?” David asks.

“It’s Jake,” Patrick jokes. He reaches out with one arm and pulls an only mildly resistant David onto his lap. “Wants to know if I want to come over for a whiskey later.”

“Well, look at you,” David says, dropping the comforter from around his shoulders in favor of looping his arms around Patrick’s neck. “I say go for it.”

Patrick makes quick work of scrolling through his messages. He can barely concentrate on what he’s reading with David depositing kisses along his neck and jaw, purring soft contented noises in his ear. He almost misses the email from the Elm County coroner’s office.

“David,” Patrick says, and David’s head snaps up at his serious tone. “It’s your death certificate. I know how you died.”

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

“So,” David says again, like they haven’t been over this a million times already this morning. He’s fully dressed, sprawled over the kitchen island, chin planted on his fist and looking up at Patrick with a self-deprecating smirk on his face. “Texting. Not murder. Not some heinous, Dateline-worthy revenge plot. I died… from texting.”

“I think technically it was the fall down the stairs while you were texting…” Patrick starts, but one glare from David has him clamping his mouth shut. “At least now we know what happened to the floor,” he tries.

David had remembered everything, of course, the second he got a glimpse of his death certificate. He _had_ been trying to run away. When he couldn’t get Roland’s truck, he’d simply walked as far as he could, making it to the edge of town. He’d been to the estate a few times with Stevie to get high, and when he caught sight of it that night, he figured no one would look for him there.

“But after a while, I got pissed that no one was looking for me here,” he’d told Patrick. “I texted Alexis, but she didn’t answer. So I just kept texting her and texting her. I think I said some awful things. And that’s all I remember.”

“I guess we know why Operation Solve Your Murder never went anywhere,” Patrick says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah,” David huffs. “We should’ve called it Operation Figure out What Idiotic Thing David Did That Got Him Killed.”

“C’mon, hey.” Patrick peels David off the counter, gripping his hips as David’s arms come up to rest on his shoulders. He waits for David to finish sighing and rolling his eyes long-sufferingly before he presses a soft, comforting kiss to his mouth. “You were upset. It was an accident.”

“Hell of an accident,” David says.

“What do you want to do?” Patrick asks him.

Now that they’ve solved the mystery of David’s death, such as it was, Patrick isn’t sure if David will want to wallow for a while, or immediately move into the “being distracted by Patrick’s mouth” portion of the day. He’s fine, either way, he just wants to know. David, to his surprise, asks for neither.

“I want to talk to my sister.”

Patrick offers to give David privacy while he talks to Alexis, but David says he wants him there, so Patrick settles in beside him on the sofa while David pulls up Alexis in his phone, hitting the little camera icon for video call.

“What’re you doing, David? It’s like eight in the morning,” Alexis says by way of greeting. Patrick can’t see her from where he’s situated a hand span away from David, still trying to give him a little bit of privacy, but he hears the pitying noise she makes. “Is your insomnia back?”

“Good morning, Alexis.” David casts a sidelong glance at Patrick. He seems unsure how to begin. Patrick gives him an encouraging nod. “Um, remember when I died?”

“Ugh, David! Yes, I remember when you died. Why do we always have to talk about this?”

“Okay, we don’t _always_ talk about this because we never talk!” David exclaims, and Patrick has to lean slightly to the left to keep from being whacked in the face by a wayward hand.

“Um, excuse me, David, we talked yesterday. I can’t help it that you’re not, like, around usually.”

David sighs, and Patrick lays a hand on his leg.

“That’s not– look, I didn’t call to fight, okay? Um, I called to ask if you remember what happened that night.”

Alexis is silent.

“About us fighting,” David gently prompts.

Alexis takes a long breath.

“You know about that.”

“Mmhmm, yes, yep.” David nods emphatically. “I remember everything, actually.”

“Okay, well.” Alexis doesn’t seem interested in adding anything else.

“Why didn’t you say?” David asks.

“Say what?”

“That we were fighting! That that’s how I died!”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“I don’t know, Alexis, maybe so I wouldn’t be stuck here with unfinished business, wondering what happened to me for _four years_.”

“Ugh, like this is somehow my fault, David!”

“I’m just saying–”

“Oh my god, okay, yes, David! We were fighting! Why do you think I never want to come visit you? To talk to you? You were texting me, and I didn’t text you back because I was over it, and you just kept texting, and then you were dead! Because of me, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I, like, _killed you_ , David.”

Alexis goes quiet, but the sound of her sniffling softly is clear through the line.

“No, you didn’t,” David asserts.

“You died because I didn’t text you back,” she says, voice small.

“No, I died because I was texting and going down stairs at the same time.” David grimaces. “It wasn’t your fault. Blame gravity, I guess.”

“But if I hadn’t ignored you–”

“Alexis, we were both being little b’s that night. I said some, like, really mean stuff to you in those texts.”

“No, I know,” Alexis says, still sniffling.

“And I am regretful about that.”

“Me, too.”

“None of this is your fault,” David says again. He grabs Patrick’s hand where it’s still curled around his thigh. “I need you to know that. And if I come back again next year, I want us to talk more, you know?”

“Okay, David,” Alexis says, starting to sound more like herself. “Maybe I could come visit and we could watch movies and do a mask and make like a whole little day of it.”

“I’d like that,” David says, his voice tight and eyes shining. Patrick puts an arm around him, pulling him in.

“Um. David,” Alexis coos coquettishly. “Whose arm is that, wrapped all snug around your li’l shoulder?”

Oh.

“Hi, Alexis,” Patrick tips his head so he’s just visible on the screen. 

Alexis gasps theatrically, her face splitting into a grin. “Patrick! Why, hellooo.” She…winks? Kind of? “You’re there awfully early. Did you two have a little sleepover?”

“Okay, Alexis, it’s been lovely chatting with you, but we really do have to go, so,” David says, finger hovering over the button to disconnect.

“No, like, I’m just wondering because I _think_ that’s the same shirt you had on yesterday, Patrick.”

“Oh. Yeah…” Patrick says, looking down at himself.

“Okay, we have to go!” David says again. “Thanks so much!”

“David, text me though!” Alexis says.

“Fine!” David huffs.

“Okay, byeee! Bye, Patrick!” Alexis moves like she’s going to blow them a kiss, but then she’s gone, David having cut her off.

“Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all,” David says, staring at the phone in his hand. “Maybe I threw myself down the stairs because I couldn’t handle having to talk to her every day.”

Patrick just pulls him in again and presses a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve got to get to Ray’s,” he says. At David’s groan, Patrick goes on, “Hey, I’ll be back later. But if I ever want to make it back here, I do have to eventually make it over there. Unfortunately.”

“Okay, fine,” David permits.

“What are you going to do until Stevie gets here?”

“I’m going to call my parents, I think. I’ve been so angry with them since I– they deserve to know that I don’t blame them for what happened. Or for leaving. They were just trying to protect Alexis, and seeing me was too much of a reminder of everything.”

“Are you going to be okay, doing that alone?” Patrick rubs David’s thigh.

David smiles at him, a soft, sideways thing. He hums in the affirmative, shifting to wrap his arms around Patrick’s neck.

“I’ll be fine. Stevie will be here soon, anyway, so she can talk me off the ledge if need be.”

Patrick peppers a few kisses along David’s jaw. “No ledges,” he mutters against David’s skin. 

“Mmm. Stevie won’t be here that soon, though,” David says. He smoothes his hands over Patrick’s back, gently guiding him closer, but Patrick pulls away with a final kiss to the corner of David’s mouth.

“Ronnie will be, unfortunately,” he says. He stands up and David mirrors him. “Is that okay? I can cancel, tell her today’s not a good day. I don’t want you to have to hide.”

“It’s fine,” David shrugs. “It’s a big house, and Stevie will cover for me. She’ll never know I’m here.”

David gives him a lingering kiss goodbye before heading upstairs to call his parents while Patrick gathers his things. Ronnie comes in just as he’s going.

“Okay, Brewer?” she asks.

“Sure, Ronnie,” Patrick says tightly. He doesn’t have the mental stamina for a verbal scrimmage today. He makes a move toward the front door.

“It’s Halloween,” she says pointedly. “David’s last day.”

Patrick stops in his tracks. “How– how do you know about that?”

“I pay attention,” she says, one eyebrow raised. “You gonna be okay?”

She’s looking at him like she knows exactly what this day is doing to him, how he feels about David, all of it.

“No,” Patrick laughs grimly, shakes his head. “Probably not.”

Ronnie gives him an appraising look. “It’ll work out,” she says finally. “These things usually do.”

And Patrick has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. In what way can any of this possibly work out? And what does she mean they usually do? Has she had a lot of experience dating dead people? He bites back a snarky response and gives her a grateful nod anyway, thankful she at least tried to be comforting on a day when he really needs it.

Patrick is a mess by the time he makes it to Ray’s, of course he is. He showers and changes into fresh clothes and eats dry toast over the sink and gives clipped half-answers to Ray’s questions about what he and “D.J.” got up to the night before, then he settles at his desk and stares at the screen in a daze for over an hour.

He shouldn’t have slept with David. Now this all feels too real. Now he wants more. And he can’t have it. He can’t take David out on a date like he wants to, can’t park him out on a back road somewhere and talk him into climbing into the back seat so they can take each other apart with their hands and mouths. Can’t drag David to a baseball game and listen to him complain about how incorrect the uniforms are. Can’t introduce him to his parents.

One week a year. One week in a house which Patrick may or may not one day be the owner of. Could that be enough for him? Could he find a way to make that be enough?

Patrick sighs, shoving the listing paperwork to the corner of his desk and pulling out the grant requests he’d been working on off and on since the day after he’d met David.

He’d spent that day with David, fixing up the house and talking, and he’d come home and started researching what it would take to buy the estate. Not for himself, he’d rationalized. Not to live in. Maybe Stevie would want to partner with him. Maybe they could fix it up and turn it into a bed and breakfast, hire someone to run it. And then once a year, they could close it down for a week, for David.

That had been his plan, half-formed in the back of his mind as it was, when he’d started looking into grants. That had been why he told himself he was doing it. It was a good business opportunity. And, hey, if it helped David out, well, that was just the nice thing to do.

He’d known David just over twenty-four hours then, and had already been prepared to rearrange his entire life simply to help him. And now, now that he really knew David? Now that he knew what it looked like to see him throw his head back and laugh, big and open, to know what it felt like to have David writhing and panting below him, what it did to him to see that spark in David’s eye when he’d hit just the right nerve with his taunting? Now that he knew what it felt like to be the cause of those things? Patrick was willing to do anything, everything, to get to keep that. Even if it was just for a week every year.

Yeah, he figures. It’s enough. 

He waits out the clock until it’s time to return to Morningwood and David. He comes prepared with Italian takeout and an actual DVD of Practical Magic as requested, and when David opens the door and greets him with a familiar kiss, it feels so domestic, so normal, that Patrick wants to freeze the moment and live in it forever. He recovers as best he can and follows David deeper into the house.

“How was Stevie?”

“A menace, as usual,” David says, and Patrick thinks he would be mortified if he could hear how much fondness has snuck into his voice. Patrick unloads the food onto the kitchen island while David fills him in on everything that had happened since they last spoke.

“Stevie wondered, we both did, whether I’ll come back next year,” David says carefully. “Now that I remember everything.”

Patrick leans against the island and crosses his arms over his chest, aiming for casual but probably not hitting it.

“What do you think?” he asks.

David inhales sharply, fidgeting with his rings.

“Who knows? I feel, um, peaceful now? Compared to before. But I don’t know if that’s because I know everything or if it’s because I’m– you know,” David’s voice drops to a whisper, “happy.”

Patrick can’t help the quirk in his lips at that but he doesn’t say anything, lets David continue.

“I don’t know if I have unfinished business still or… not.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says instinctively, even though they both know it’s not. “You wanted to move on, remember? So if you do, then that’s okay. And if you don’t– if you’re back here next year, well. I’ll be here.”

“Um. But I don’t want to move on, anymore, is the thing?”

“David,” Patrick starts, helpless. He doesn’t know how to make this right.

“No. NO,” David declares, hands waving in front of him as if to banish the melancholy from the room. “We’re not doing this.”

“Not doing what?”

“Being sad. We’re not being sad. This is my last night, maybe ever, who the fuck knows, and I am not wasting it being all weepy and maudlin. That’s not a good look for me.”

Patrick can’t help it, he laughs.

“You’re right. I don’t want to do that either.” He takes a step toward David, opening his arms. “I want to hold you.”

David steps into the circle of Patrick’s arms and drops his face into Patrick’s neck, breathing him in. They stand like that for a long time, lightly swaying in the middle of the kitchen, Patrick running his hands up and down David’s back while David clings to his shirt.

“Serious question,” David mumbles into his neck eventually.

“Yes?”

“Can you hold me… while I eat?”

Patrick gives it a beat, then, “Wow, David.” 

“Okay, it’s just that food smells so good, and I’m starving.”

“Wow,” Patrick says again, pulling back and shooting David a disparaging look even as he reaches for the plates.

They carry their plates into the den and Patrick starts up the movie on his laptop, though he has zero intention of watching it. Instead he eats and watches David, who has definitely seen it before, say some of the lines along with the actors and catcall at the screen when Sandra Bullock kisses the guy with the ball cap in the street.

Nicole Kidman has just called to say that she’s in trouble when the doorbell rings, and Patrick had honestly forgotten they were supposed to be passing out candy. David’s face lights up, though, and he grabs the oversized bowl on his way to the door.

For someone who claims to hate kids, David seems genuinely charmed by all the little costumes, taking time to compliment every doctor or astronaut or zombie hockey player who comes to the door.

They work their way through dinner and the pumpkin cannoli Patrick brought for dessert, along with the last of Stevie’s apple pie wine which Patrick has, bizarrely, become quite fond of, and by the time all the neighborhood ladies are showing up at Sandra Bullock’s house to help get the cowboy guy out of Nicole Kidman, the candy bowl is two-thirds empty. David dumps the last heap of it into the pillowcase of a tiny Dread Pirate Roberts and flips off the porch light.

He comes to stand in front of Patrick, holding out a hand in invitation.

“Dance with me?” he says.

Patrick closes the laptop on Sandy and Nicole and grabs David’s hand, lets David lead him to the middle of the room and pull him close.

“Are we pretending there’s music?” Patrick asks as they sway back and forth.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” David says, pulling out his phone. His finger pecks at the screen a few times and soon, the first bars of “Unchained Melody” are floating out of the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

Patrick gives him a look.

“Seriously?”

“What?” David’s grinning at him, his dimple out in full force. “Too on the nose?”

Patrick just shakes his head, pulls David in close, suddenly thankful that he hadn’t chosen _Ghost_ for their movie night, at least. When the song ends Patrick grabs David’s phone and queues up the next one, an old Sam Cooke melody he’s always sort of loved. The lyrics mean so much more, he realizes as it plays, now that he has someone in his life who fits them so well.

 _Darling, you thrill me,_ Patrick tucks himself even closer into David and lets his eyes slide shut, _honest you do._

When they’ve had enough dancing, Patrick makes love to David like they have all the time in the world, pressing him into the sofa right there in the den and drawing soft pleas and heated praise from him until they both somehow end up sweaty and sated on the floor, the threadbare blanket pulled over them.

“Maybe things would have been different,” David says after a while. “If we had met back then.”

Patrick stays quiet, waits for David to continue.

“Maybe I would have… felt like I had somewhere, where I fit, you know?”

“Yeah,” Patrick pulls David tighter against his chest. “Me too.”

“It’s okay,” David whispers, gripping Patrick’s shoulder even as he doesn’t look at him. “If you’re not here next year. If you don’t– I know that’s a long time to wait. It’s okay if you’re not here, it was still worth it.”

“David,” Patrick hooks a finger under David’s chin, forces him to meet his eyes. When he speaks he can hear the desperation in his own voice. “I’ll be here next year. _I promise._ I’ll be here.”

“It’s a lot to ask–” David starts.

“Not to me, it’s not. David, I,” Patrick has to choke back the words he wants to say. He can’t say them like this. “I want to be with you,” he says instead. “However I can.” 

David kisses him then, like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline, and Patrick meets him just as desperately. He doesn’t know how long they press kisses and promises into each other’s skin until, distantly, Patrick hears a clock begin to chime, and he blacks out.

☕☕☕🍃🍃🍃👻👻👻

Patrick wakes up freezing and alone on the floor the next morning, his back tight. The house is oppressively silent as he dresses, cleans up the dinner mess from the night before, and packs his things. David’s phone is still next to his laptop and he pockets it, a tiny spark of hope lighting in his chest that maybe he’ll have cause to return it one day.

He’s itching to get back to Ray’s and dive into the grant applications. He has to find a way to buy the estate, and even if he can’t, maybe he can find a way to work David’s week into the sales contract? He needs to talk to Stevie. As the estate’s representative, she could make a demand like that, if she could convince her family to go along with it. They could try. 

Patrick is getting into his car when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

 **Stevie:** _come to the motel?_

Speak of the devil. It’s a short drive, so Patrick doesn’t have much time to plan his pitch to Stevie, but he knows she’ll be on his side. Maybe she could convince her family to hold off on selling entirely until Patrick can get the funds–

Patrick twists the doorknob and pushes his way into the motel lobby. Stevie’s there, perched on a chair at the counter, but Patrick barely registers her because the person she’s talking to is…

“David?”

David turns around at the sound of his name, a brilliant smile breaking out on his face when he locks eyes with Patrick.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“How?” Patrick starts, then forgets every word he knows other than, “how.”

“I don’t know,” David’s shaking his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I have no fucking idea.”

Patrick’s eyes slide to Stevie in a question, but she looks just as confused and elated as David, her lips pressed in a tight line that does nothing to hide her joy as she shakes her head at Patrick.

“Are you…” He looks at David again, taking him in. He looks the same as always. “You’re alive?”

“Mmhmm,” David nods, eyes shining beautifully in the morning light that spills through the dingy curtains. “I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“How?” Patrick asks again. He’s short-circuiting. This isn’t… can’t be possible.

“I woke up here this morning,” David tries to explain, hands spreading. “Back in my old room.”

“Which was, thankfully, unoccupied,” Stevie adds.

Patrick crosses the room in two quick strides, wrapping David in his arms and gripping him tight. “So you’re not going away again?” he mumbles, his mouth pressed into David’s shoulder.

“I’m not planning to,” David tells him, arms coming up to wrap around Patrick’s neck.

“Good,” Patrick pulls away. His voice wavers and he can feel tears on his face. He swipes a hand over his eyes. “That’s good,” he laughs thickly.

David frames his face in both hands, guiding him into a long, tender kiss.

“I wonder what happens now,” David whispers when they pull apart a long moment later.

“No idea,” Patrick whispers back. “But I can’t wait to find out.”


	4. Epilogue: One Year Later

“David, those mini pumpkin cheesecakes are for the guests,” Patrick scolds. David freezes over the dessert table like a raccoon caught rummaging through the trash, giving him an unapologetic grin around a mouthful of cheesecake.

“This whole party was my idea,” he argues. “Am I not allowed to perform quality control on my own menu?”

“Of course,” Patrick allows. He crosses the room and wraps his arms around David’s middle, reaching up to kiss the sweetness off his lips. “I’m just wondering how many of the cheesecakes you’ll need to QC because I’m pretty sure that was your third? And the party was my idea.”

“Technically, the party was _my_ idea,” Alexis points out, floating down the stairs like some sort of ethereal sprite in her costume. Patrick isn’t sure what she’s supposed to be, but she looks great in her flowing white dress and flower crown.

“Okay, we agreed to have the party because it’s your last major holiday before you go back,” David argues. “That doesn’t mean it was your idea.”

Alexis had been staying with them since summer. Once Patrick’s grant money came through, he and David were able to buy the estate (which they quickly renamed) and start fixing it up. That project had taken months, and when it was over, they’d taken over the lease at the general store and started fixing that up too. That’s what Alexis had been helping with, ostensibly, these last few months. She’d placed herself in charge of getting their marketing in place and helping them prepare for the opening.

Really, she’d been finding any and every excuse to hang out with David as much as possible, but Patrick wasn’t going to let on that he’d noticed.

The soft launch was planned for mid-November, and then Alexis would be headed back to her new place in New York. David’s going to have a hard time when she goes, but Patrick’s not too worried. She and David have been talking almost every day for the last year, their relationship stronger than ever.

David talks to his parents a lot more, too. Mr. and Mrs. Rose had spent a week visiting David and Patrick just after they formally received possession of the estate. Mr. Rose had even removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves once or twice to help Patrick with the renovations. They were due back for another weeklong stay over New Year’s, and Patrick couldn’t wait for his own parents to finally get a chance to get to know them. They already loved David like he was their own.

Guests start arriving for the party, and Patrick loses track of David a couple of times in the swell of people, though his boyfriend’s costume makes him tough to miss.

Patrick has finally gotten his wish for a Ghostbusters-themed couple’s costume. Kind of. He himself is dressed as Dr. Venkman in an elaborately detailed costume David had found online and dropped way too much money on. David has rejected Patrick’s idea that he be Slimer, though, opting instead for Sigourney Weaver’s character, Dana.

Patrick had been unsure of how exactly David was going to pull that one off. He remembered Dana’s style as cute but unremarkable in the film. He’d completely forgotten about her trying to seduce Bill Murray in that sexy, shimmery dress. Which is, of course, exactly what David is wearing. He’d foregone the spiral perm but kept the sultry makeup to complete the look.

Patrick is unsurprised by how much it's working for him. He has to excuse himself while talking to Ray and Ronnie so that he can step outside just for the blast of cold air, and once Stevie openly laughs at him when David walks by and he forgets what he's saying mid-sentence.

Eventually, the party winds down, Alexis disappears with Twyla, and David removes his makeup and changes into a loose-fitting pair of joggers and Patrick’s old Jays tee. He will never, ever get over seeing David in one of his shirts.

It’s quiet while they put away the leftovers and clean up the mess their guests have left behind, and then David finds him in the den and holds out a hand.

“Dance with me?” he says.

Patrick grabs his hand and kisses it but doesn’t let David pull him in. 

“One thing first,” he says. He strides over to the mantel and pulls out a long, narrow box that’s been hiding behind a framed picture of the two of them taken on the day they got possession of the house. He returns to David and drops to one knee in front of him, heart rate skyrocketing at the surprised gasp his boyfriend makes.

“David Rose,” he begins. “I love you. And I love the life we’re building together. Every day with you is an adventure, and I don’t ever want to go a day without you. Will you be my husband? As long as we both shall live?”

David’s crying, and laughing, and nodding emphatically as he hauls Patrick to his feet. They kiss through laughter, through tears. David murmurs ‘yes, yes’ against his lips before pulling him into a tight hug.

“As long as we both shall live,” David promises. “And whatever comes after that, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was verrry fun to write, so thank you for the prompt, Nonny! I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> \- Huge thank you to the mods for organizing the Trick or Treat prompt fest. You are so appreciated for all your hard work in making this happen for us!! 
> 
> \- The plot was a little bit stolen from The Spirit of Christmas, an absolutely nonsensical Christmas movie that I adore & watch every year. The "D.J." thing came directly from that. 
> 
> \- If you've come to these notes looking for any kind of explanation as to 1) why David was a, ahem, _corporeal_ ghost and 2) how he came back to life, I can't really help you? Other than to say that 1) I needed David & Patrick to be able to kiss and 2) because I wanted him to? Shhh... none of this needs to make sense. 
> 
> \- I put like two dozen Easter eggs in here about horror movies/Halloween references. All the Elms, for instance, were taken from settings of classic slasher flicks. So if you read something and you were like, "Isn't that from...?" Yes, it probably was.
> 
> I'm [dinnfameron](https://dinnfameron.tumblr.com) on tumblr come say hiiii.


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